


Out of Africa

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Profiler's Choice Award Runner-Up, Best Overall Fic 2014.Profiler's Choice Award Nominee, Best Overall Fic 2015.Profiler's Choice Award Nominee, Best Hotch/Emily Characterization, 2015.This work was originally published on FFNet March 2014 and completed December 2014. Since its publication, it has been read by over 75,000 readers in over a dozen countries. I am eternally grateful to my original readers, commenters, and subscribers who kept me going throughout it all, and who held on for the ride.A very special thanks to Annber03, who helped in so many ways that I cannot even recount them all.





	1. Recrudescence

**Author's Note:**

> Profiler's Choice Award Runner-Up, Best Overall Fic 2014.  
> Profiler's Choice Award Nominee, Best Overall Fic 2015.  
> Profiler's Choice Award Nominee, Best Hotch/Emily Characterization, 2015.
> 
> This work was originally published on FFNet March 2014 and completed December 2014. Since its publication, it has been read by over 75,000 readers in over a dozen countries. I am eternally grateful to my original readers, commenters, and subscribers who kept me going throughout it all, and who held on for the ride. 
> 
> A very special thanks to Annber03, who helped in so many ways that I cannot even recount them all.

 

_"Coincidences give you opportunities to look more deeply into your existence."_   
_~Doug Dillon._

* * *

_**London, England. September 2013.** _

"Turn on the television. Channel 4."

Emily Prentiss rolled her eyes at Clyde Easter's brusqueness—he didn't even bother to state his name, simply issuing commands the instant that she answered the phone. Still, she did as she was told, reaching for the remote at the corner of her desk and punching the necessary buttons.

Across the room, the flat screen on the wall filled with images of smoke and shattered glass, bloody faces and crying mothers, armed police officers hurrying people to safety. The past four days had been an absolute reign of terror in Nairobi as a group of East African jihadists had held an entire shopping center hostage. Earlier that morning, a military-police joint task force had stormed the mall and ended the standoff in an absolute bloodbath.

"The assault in Kenya," she stated, informing him that she was watching the correct channel.

"Yes."

"Yes." She repeated, still trying to understand whatever he was trying to tell her.

"Your passport's up to date, isn't it, darling?"

Emily stamped down another wave of irritation—she hated how he always asked questions that he didn't mean, how he used them to skirt around an issue instead of simply coming out and saying it.

"You know it is," she pointed out, quickly cutting to the chase. "I assume that you're asking because I have a trip to Kenya in my future."

"You do. My, what a sharp one you are, Miss Prentiss—"

"Spare me the sarcasm, Easter." She tilted her head towards the ceiling again, daring to ask, "Why me?"

"Because," Clyde paused for a beat (and Emily loathed him for it, for drawing out every second). "Your little friends from the FBI are coming over to investigate, along with members of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. They believe the attack is a direct threat to the United States and her allies. Since you have a prior working relationship—and a first-hand knowledge of how the Bureau operates—you're the perfect candidate for the job."

"The BAU is in Kenya?" Now Emily sat up, planting her feet firmly back on the ground. She honestly wasn't sure how she felt about this news, or about the prospect of working with them again—yes, this time she'd left on good terms, but the thought of being back on the case with her old team stirred up some unresolved stuff (she knew that it would make her miss them again, it would remind her of the feeling of  _family_  and  _belonging_  that she'd always felt around them), and she wasn't sure that she was ready to be thrown back into that emotional tailspin.

"Well, no, technically—not yet. They're leaving the U.S. tomorrow morning. Which is when you'll be heading out as well."

"Yes, sir," Emily answered automatically, her mind already a million miles away as she began to dread all of the possible reactions that she could have to being back with the BAU.

Clyde said something else, and Emily hoped that it wasn't important, because she didn't actually hear his words—she simply hung up the phone, swiveling her chair to look out at the London skyline.

She liked it here. The job was a challenge, in a good way—she'd had to re-learn and re-develop those skills and muscles that she'd cultivated during her stint with Interpol, but once she found her stride again, the pace was familiar and comforting. She knew that this was where she belonged. As much as she had enjoyed her time at the BAU, international crimes would always be her niche, her true calling.

Still, that didn't stop the odd apprehension rising from her chest and through her throat as she contemplated what it would be like to work with her old team members. Last year, Derek Morgan had spent a few weeks working with her in London (Penelope joined him, but she was there strictly on vacation)—it had been nice, having her old partner in the trenches with her. It wasn't the same as the BAU, they didn't spend their days walking through crime scenes or down crowded city streets, but rather cooped up in her office, going over paper trails and making international phone calls. However, the camaraderie and smooth-rolling efficiency was still there—there were several times when they were simply sitting in her office, quietly focused on their respective tasks, and Emily would realize that she was smiling, simply because she was so happy to have her friend here with her.

However, she also remembered how her whole body filled with a dull, empty ache whenever they left. She'd returned to her apartment (her  _flat_ , as Penelope would say), which had seemed so hollow without Penelope's bubbly personality, her giggly girlish lilt filling the rafters as she recounted the adventures of her day to Morgan and Prentiss, and the warm, deep melody of Morgan's voice as he delivered one of his customary smooth lines, the reassuring weight that his presence always seemed to instill in any room, the feeling of family that had saturated every pore of her little nest while they were there.

Emily could admit that when it came to human emotion, she was a bit of a coward. She didn't like the sadness, the pain of it all. Until she'd transferred to the BAU, she'd done a pretty fine job of avoiding any deep ties with her coworkers (hell, she'd even been able to keep distance between herself and Doyle, and she had been  _sleeping_  with him), because she'd known that everything in life was temporary. However, she hadn't been able to stop herself from falling in love with the members of her BAU team—it was so subtle, so gentle and soft that she hadn't realized it was happening until it was too late.

She didn't regret falling under the spell of the BAU. She wouldn't even regret spending time with them again. However, she would (and did) dread all the angsty fallout that would follow.

She suddenly realized that she was biting her thumbnail again. With an irritated sigh and a roll of her eyes, Emily shook her head and swiveled her chair back to the computer. She had work to do. She'd deal with the stupid sloppy emotions whenever they actually occurred. Right now, she simply filed them away in her mental box and focused on the task at hand. She'd have plenty of time to dread and worry and fret over things she couldn't control on the long flight to Nairobi.


	2. Little Matchstick Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between seasons 8 and 9.

_"Clinging to me_

_Like a last breath you would breathe_

_You were like home to me_

_[Now]I don't recognize the street."_

_~Ellie Goulding, I Know You Care._

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia. September 2013.** _

For what seemed like the thousandth time in a matter of hours, Alex Blake glanced over at David Rossi. His face was still set in an unreadable mask, and his eyes were distant, unfocused.

It had been two months since Erin Strauss' death, and Rossi was still in a state of almost-constant shock. He didn't smile anymore, didn't crack his usual snarky jokes, didn't even have his hair-trigger temper anymore. Alex knew that he was still healing, and eventually, some of his old spark would return (though not all of it, because there were some wounds that time could never fully mend or erase), but the dark period of mourning and waiting was slowly tearing him to pieces, and Alex hated watching his devolution in slow motion, while being completely helpless to alter its course.

More concerning than David's depression was the fact that Aaron Hotchner had chosen Rossi as one of the agents for the new assignment in Nairobi. Since they still had cases to consult and assist on, the entire team couldn't be sent to Kenya—instead, Hotch had announced that he, Rossi, and Reid would be going. While she wasn't exactly upset about not having to travel halfway across the world, Alex still wasn't clear on Hotch's reasoning.

Aaron Hotchner sensed this, whenever Blake gently knocked on his door after the briefing.

"Hotch, I don't mean to pry, but—"

He answered her question before she could even ask it, replying in his usual brusque tone, "JJ shouldn't be so far away from her son. We will need Reid's expertise and knowledge of local culture and practices. If Reid goes, then you need to stay because your strengths are very similar and I don't want the team to be without at least one of you. I have to go, because I've been specifically asked. If I go, then either Morgan or Rossi needs to stay to act as unit chief, and Dave is not in any shape to head the BAU in my absence. Which means he has to go with us."

Hotch took a moment to simply watch Blake's expression, to see what her thoughts were on the matter (she didn't have to say anything, her face was an easy read, at least when she wasn't intentionally trying to hide her emotions). While he certainly didn't have to explain himself, he still wanted her to see his reasoning, to nod and say that he'd made the right decision, because honestly, he wasn't sure either.

"It makes sense," Alex agreed quietly, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her slacks. Then she quirked her eyebrow in a gently concerned expression, "But are you sure that Rossi can handle being out in the field like that? There's no telling how long you'll be in Nairobi, and you'll have to watch your backs the entire time—terrorists are a horse of a different color, Hotch, and you said yourself that Dave isn't at his best right now."

"I considered that," Hotch assured her. "But I really don't see a better option. Reid and Rossi are two of our best insights when it comes to these mindsets and situations—and I have to admit, I'm hoping that this will somehow help Dave get back into the swing of things."

Though they didn't talk about it much, Hotch had been keeping careful tabs on his friend, and he knew that Dave was actually moving forward, though he also noticed that some days weren't as good as others. Today was one of those not-so-good days—Hotch had begun to realize that the not-so-good days tended to happen after they'd spent too many days in the office, surrounded by too many memories. Maybe a long trip in the field would be good, cathartic in some ways.

Blake didn't want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself, "And if it doesn't?"

The question hung in the air for several beats. Aaron Hotchner gave a heavy sigh, looking down at his desk before bringing his eyes up to meet Blake's again, "I honestly don't know."

* * *

_**New York City, New York.** _

"Five days ago, Al-Noor al-Mujahedeen, a militant jihadist group from East Africa, took control of the Central Shopping Mall in Nairobi, holding over forty hostages. Twenty-six people were killed in the initial take-down, with over sixty injured. The group released fourteen hostages who proved themselves to be Muslims by answering a series of questions—another three were killed during an escape attempt. The stand-off lasted for four days, ending yesterday morning, after a military task force bombarded the shopping center. Two military police were also shot and killed during the final assault on the shopping center, with thirteen others being severely injured by the bombs which were set off when they finally entered the building."

Luc Dempsey seemed completely unfazed by these facts as he relayed the information to the Joint Terrorism Task Force, handing off a stack of files to his assistant, who dutifully doled out the packets to each task force member. He took a deep breath and continued, "None of the militants survived—those who were not killed during the military assault were equipped with IEDs, which they detonated as the military police stormed the building. ANAM claimed responsibility for the attack via several media outlets, announcing that it was the beginning of a series of coordinated attacks against Western oppression in East Africa. They will continue this campaign until U.N. troops leave East African soil."

The man seated next to David Rossi made a small noise of empathy as he opened the folder to see photos of the ghastly remnants of the crime scene.

Dempsey set his hands on his hips, "We have reason to believe that ANAM is a direct threat to the United States, as well as several other Western powers—which is why we are sending JTTF agents to Nairobi to investigate. The Kenyan authorities have been very helpful so far, but they also understand our desire to have our own people working on this. We will be joined by members from similar organizations in Canada, the U.K., Germany, and Israel. As guests in a foreign country, we will have to adjust to Kenyan Intelligence protocol, as well as play nicely and share information and evidence with our other foreign friends. It certainly ain't gonna be a cake walk, folks."

There were a few smiles at this pronouncement, a few nods of agreement—international cases were always tricky, and the more countries involved, the more complicated it got. You walked a fine line between trying to be helpful and trying to protect your own country's interest, without stepping on foreign toes.

Aaron Hotchner took a moment to observe the reactions around the table. He knew that he was being brought in to profile the men behind the attack, but he couldn't stop himself from sizing up his new team members as well—it was always good, especially when going into an already-volatile situation, to have some sense of whom you were working with. He wanted to be able to identify the trouble-makers before they actually started making trouble.

Across the table, SSA Rowena Lewis caught his gaze. She seemed to understand what he was doing, because she merely stared back, cocking her head slightly to the side. Then the corners of her eyes narrowed and she gave a small smirk of genuine amusement,  _You scoping me out? Nice try, head-shrinker_.

Aaron surprised himself by smiling back.

* * *

_**London, England.** _

Emily Prentiss gave her usual perfunctory smile as her driver dutifully took her luggage from her, moving it to the trunk of the car. Although she'd grown up in a world of drivers and bullet-proof tinted windows (she could literally could count on one hand the number of times she'd ever seen her mother actually  _drive_  a car), Emily still never got over how odd it always seemed—that was another thing she'd relished about working in the BAU, being able to drive her own damn car to work. Nowadays, she was much too important to drive herself to work—no, no, that time could be spent making phone calls or scheduling meetings or reading the never-ending stream of emails and texts that kept her phone buzzing at all hours of the night and day.

It had been another gift, another "perk" that Clyde Easter had given her, and as usual, Clyde's idea of a gift was the exactly opposite of Emily's definition (though she never said so, because he really did try—she knew that this was his way of showing that he valued her, that he wanted to reward her loyalty and fortitude). It just meant that from the moment she left for work in the mornings until the moment she finally walked through the front door of her flat at night, she was constantly surrounded by people, constantly under someone's scrutiny, like a fish in a bowl. Some days, she didn't mind the pressure. Some days, it made her want to scream. Today, she was too tired to know which category she fit into.

She still had her own car (after all, the car service was only for her trips to and from the office), which she sometimes took for drives late at night, when her mind was too busy to sleep—in fact, that was exactly what she'd done the night before, after she'd packed her bags for an indefinite amount of time in Nairobi. She'd driven in aimless circles through the city, relishing the quiet emptiness of her car, the feeling of being completely unseen, even in the middle of traffic.

Her mind had drifted down paths that she'd actively avoided for quite some time—back into valleys of memory, dark and heavy with so many unnamed and unexpressed emotions, into times and places to which she never wanted to return.

She knew why. She didn't want to admit it, but she knew.

She told herself that it was simply because she was going to be back with her old team (or at least parts of it, she didn't imagine that the whole BAU would come over), that she was just nervous about working with them again, about being reminded of the fact that she was once one of them, coupled with the painful reality that she no longer was.

However, if she were completely honest, she'd know that wasn't true. Derek and Penelope had visited for a few weeks, and she'd had some semblance of her old life back, for a time. She had missed them when they left, but she hadn't dreaded their arrival, like she did now.

That's because this time,  _he_  was going to be there.

Emily felt another odd wave of apprehension surge up her throat at the thought. She'd made a fool of herself the last time that she'd seen him—hugging him, holding onto him in the middle of the bullpen like a helpless child, unable to control the tears streaming down her face. Jesus, why hadn't she just trumpeted to the world about her obvious feelings for the man?

That was probably the worst part, the thing that filled her with the most dread—she had been unable to handle her own emotions, and she had turned their last moments into something heavy and awkward. She'd done so well, had been so careful for so many years, sidestepping around feelings and furtive glances, and then she'd gone and fucked in all up in the final ten seconds.  _Typical Emily._

She shook her head gently, as if trying to physically remove this particular line of thought from her mind.

"Ready, m'um?" Hershey, her driver, had slipped back into the front seat with a warm smile.

Emily returned the smile as she nodded, "Let's get this show on the road, sir."

"Kenya, is it?"

"Yes. But you're just driving me to Heathrow."

He grinned at the quip. "How long ya gone for?"

"Dunno. As long as it takes to get some answers—or at least enough answers to satisfy Mr. Easter."

Hershey made a slight face at the pronouncement—he'd met Clyde Easter, only a few times, when he'd shared a ride to a meeting or back to Ms. Prentiss' flat. He knew that Ms. Prentiss didn't seem to care for Easter, and by extension, neither did he. Of course, he'd also become a pretty good gauge of human behavior (it's amazing how easily people forget that their driver is actually human, actually observing), and he saw very little common decency in Mr. Easter. Nothing good could come from a man that suave.

"Well, I'll be hoping that you get back soon."

"Thank you, Hershey," she smiled at him through the rearview mirror, a quiet, genuine smile that made her eyes seem even bigger and brighter.

With another smile of his own, Hershey pulled out into traffic, allowing Emily a moment to collect her thoughts.

She had a job to do. She couldn't lose focus by getting all soppy-sentimental over things that never truly happened, over old boxes filled with faded coulda-shoulda-woulda-beens. With a small nod of self-agreement, she turned her face to the window, watching the city streets roll by. And like Hershey, she wondered when she'd see this place again—the place that was still becoming her home, yet still more of a home than anywhere else in the world, at the moment. She felt the familiar wave of nostalgic longing wash over her body—the need to belong somewhere, to someone, in some way. She would turn forty-three this October, and she still felt like the little matchstick girl, striking up things that never lasted with a futile sense of determination—romances that fizzled out, homes that were bought only to be sold, friends found and lost and found again (though slightly lost by distance again, too).

And now she was on her way again, to some strange land and an even stranger adventure—with every waking moment to be spent soaking in the remnants of the people and emotions who were once home to her. Except they didn't feel like home anymore.

_Emily, Emily, the orphaned girl with two living parents, Emily, Emily, the homeless girl with the coziest flat in London, Emily, Emily, the loveless girl with a heart full of ache and desire. Never belonged anywhere, to anyone, never, never, never...Emily, Emily, alone and forgotten, always and forever._

* * *

_**New York City, New York.** _

Reid rubbed his eyes sleepily as he boarded the plane for their flight to Amsterdam. Yesterday evening, they'd flown into New York, where they'd spent the next morning in a Joint Terrorism Task Force meeting, catching up on the events in Nairobi. Naturally, the powers-that-be were concerned that this could mean further attacks on American citizens abroad, though they weren't the only nation sending investigators—the American CIA and FBI agents would first fly out to the Netherlands, where they would meet with their German and Canadian counterparts (the Israelis and the British were already en route and would arrive a day earlier), and from there, they would fly to Nairobi. They would have to hit the ground running, with no chance to recover from jetlag, but Spencer Reid wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.

The thought of being off-rhythm made him instinctively turn back to glance at David Rossi, who was right behind him on the jetbridge. Perhaps this trip would be good for him—after all, of all the people who could possibly understand what Rossi was going through, Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner were definitely the most likely candidates. Maybe during a quiet moment, Spencer could offer Rossi some kind of support—in return for all the kindness that Rossi had shown to Spencer after he lost Maeve.

_Maeve_. The mere thought of her name still created a now-familiar pang in his chest. That was a wound that would never fully heal, no matter how much Spencer moved forward. She had left a scar on his soul, and you don't simply move past scars. They stayed with you, indelible parts of your skin and your story, and though the wound itself may hurt less, your memory never faded and your remembrance of the pain was as fresh as the first loss itself. And honestly, he didn't want to ever stop feeling this way about her—his feelings for her, no matter how tumultuous or excruciating, still reminded him that he wasn't just a walking encyclopedia, some machine without feeling or humanity. That was probably the greatest gift that Maeve had given him during their short time together—she had restored the lost and unfeeling parts of his heart, gently breathing life and light into darkened corners that he had long forgotten within himself.

Spencer wondered if that was how Rossi felt about Strauss. It was hard to imagine them being as kind and sweet to one another as he and Maeve had been, but who really knew what went on behind closed doors? The young doctor decided that he really didn't want to know.

Hotch was already on the plane, seated and ready for take-off. He barely glanced up from his phone as Spencer moved down the aisle towards him.

"I've gotta go, buddy," Hotch was using the voice that was reserved for his son. Spencer looked down at his boss' phone to see Jack's face smiling back via Skype.

"Bye, Daddy. I love you."

"Love you, too." The soft smile on Hotch's face was such a rare thing that Spencer couldn't help but stare. However, that expression was quickly replaced with his usual no-nonsense mask once he hung up.

"Soccer tryouts are next week," Aaron stated, and Spencer could hear the regret in his voice.

By now, Rossi had joined them, tucking his carry-on into the overhead bin as he gently assured his friend, "He understands, Aaron."

"I know." The younger man didn't sound entirely convinced.

Dave offered one last sympathetic smile before plopping down in the row ahead of Hotch, easily changing the subject, his tone filling with the usual Rossi snark, "One thing I just love about these flights—you always have so much room to yourself."

That was obviously a joke, because this certainly was not the BAU jet—it was a standard commercial flight, complete with bored business men and an already-crying baby, though the US government had been kind enough to ensure that they were seated at the back of the plane, spread out and away from the rest of the passengers.

"I'm definitely missing our jet," Hotch cast a wary eye towards the front of the plane.

Spencer nodded in agreement, taking a seat across the aisle from Hotch—once the plane reached cruising altitude, he could turn in his seat and stretch his legs across the entire row, a definite perk for an eight hour flight. Still, it wasn't nearly as comfortable as their usual accommodations.

There was a light commotion at the plane entrance as Jeff Masterson and Rowena Lewis, two of the New York JTTF agents assigned to the mission, made their way down the aisle.

Spencer took a moment to study them—Jeff Masterson looked like he might have been police or military before his time in the Bureau, with his well-muscled frame and buzz-cut hair (cut so short to hide the beginnings of gray, Spencer guessed). He moved with authority, with the relaxed easy energy of a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. With his steel-blue eyes and square jaw, he looked like the kind of FBI agent that one would see on TV. Rowena Lewis reminded him of Prentiss in some ways—tall, broad-shouldered, brunette, with an oddly self-contained movement to her gait, as if every muscle was always tensed, always ready to pounce. However, unlike Prentiss, she had dark hazel eyes and sharply-defined brows that made her look as if she was perpetually pissed at the world. Her hands were weathered, telling Spencer that she was probably a good seven years older than she actually looked, and her fingers seemed to always curl and flex into dainty, fluttery gestures, an odd juxtaposition to the strength of the rest of her body.

Together, these two agents made a hell of a pair—Gideon had once told Spencer that in order to be truly effective at intimidation, one needed not to be violent, but to merely have the suggestion of violence, carried in their frame and in the way they walked. Masterson and Lewis definitely had that. Either one looked like they could take on Derek Morgan—and win.

Despite their looks, they had both been nothing but warm and welcoming to the BAU team since their introduction at the JTTF meeting earlier that day. Even now, Rowena spared them a sunny smile that completely changed the look of her features.

"I've got exactly ten minutes before I am out like a light," Rowena announced, handing her bag to Jeff, who easily slipped it into the overhead bin. She checked her cellphone one last time before turning it off and slipping it in her pocket.

"Dramamine," Jeff offered the explanation, glancing at his coworker with a smile. "Roe here can't fly without being drugged out of her mind."

"If I start snoring, just kick the back of my seat," she instructed Spencer, who simply nodded, slightly smiling at her easy-natured self-effacement.

"That's why I have these," he informed her, holding up his headphones. He had the latest audio recording of the complete works of Dostoevsky, and he was excited at the chance to listen for hours without interruption.

Despite the fact that they practically had ten rows to themselves, Jeff slipped into the seat next to Rowena, across the aisle from Rossi (an action that didn't go unnoticed by Hotch, who made a mental note to keep an eye on those two—emotionally involved agents sometimes presented more of a danger in high-charged situations, because they were too concerned with each other's safety to let their partner do their job).

David also noticed—he immediately thought of times gone by, when he and Erin spent hours side-by-side in planes, trains, and automobiles, working on cases together. On the flight to New York during the tainted MDMA case, she'd sat beside him, silently slipping her hand across the seat to let her fingertips gently touch his (just enough to be felt, not enough to be noticed by the others). If he'd known that would be their last flight together, he would have held her hand the entire flight, not giving a damn who saw or what they thought about it.

He turned his face back to the window. Erin wasn't his first loss, he'd had better lessons in deeper grief, but God above, this one hit harder than the others. He wasn't even sure why—maybe it was because of the way he lost her, how a woman of steel was taken out by a cruel coward who used her worst fears and deepest vices against her, how her death left behind three shaky and shattered children, how it reminded David that he could share this fate (Erin had been damaged by her job for years, then saved by it again when she fought for sobriety, and finally killed by it, a cycle that could be repeated by David, by any agent, if they weren't careful).

Regardless of how or why this particular loss affected him, David knew that it was affecting every other aspect of his life—most importantly, his job, his one solace and escape from whatever reality surrounded him. He had once admitted to Hotch that the chase had become his mistress, his true calling and the purpose of his life. Now he wondered if that was just the excuse he'd told himself, so that he didn't have to be bothered with things like relationships and remembrances of things past and people lost. Maybe what was once his refuge had now become his shield of denial, a way to deflect instead of dealing with things. Regardless of his reasons, he now found that his usual sanctuary had become a private hell—every room had some memory of her, some reminder of all the things that he was trying to avoid.

"Agent Rossi," Masterson's voice interrupted his thoughts, and David turned to look at the younger man. Jeff was fighting back a boyish grin as he admitted, "I just—I wanted to say, I'm a big fan of yours—well,  _fan_  perhaps isn't the best choice of word, but I am truly honored to get to work with you."

"We'll see if you still feel that way after you've actually worked with him." Aaron Hotchner's deadpan voice drifted over the seat, followed by the light sound of Spencer Reid trying (and failing) to fight back a snicker.

David rose to look over the back of the seat, giving Hotch his best disapproving-old-man glare and sparing a quick look at Dr. Reid as well before turning back to Jeff. "Thank you, Agent Masterson. It's nice to work with someone who  _appreciates_  my skills."

This earned him a light huff from Hotch, and though neither man could see one another, they both knew that the other was smiling.

Jeff watched this exchange with a wide grin. He liked these guys—during his army days, there had been the old adage that you could always spot the head-shrinkers (they always looked like analysts, kind of the way that Dr. Reid kid looked), and though he'd known it to be a myth for many years, it was still refreshing to see that the BAU had a sense of humor.

Rowena gave him a slight nudge with her elbow, and he didn't have to look at her to know that she was grinning, coy and sparkling like a cheshire cat. She was well-aware of his admiration for David Rossi—they'd discussed the man's books and his career many times ( _your man crush_ , that's what she'd called it, teasing in a way that didn't feel like teasing because her eyes still danced as her fingertips trailed up his arm).

He heard her chuckle softly as she shifted in her seat again, turning towards the plane window. By now, the rest of the JTTF had boarded the plane, talking amongst themselves as they settled into their seats and prepared for takeoff.

Rowena blindly reached over to tap his leg, "Wake me when we reach Amsterdam."

"Sure thing," he promised easily. She gave a light smile, eyes already closed as her heavy dose of Dramamine began to take full effect. The pilot gave his usual greeting over the intercom and the plane began to taxi down the runway, but Jeff kept his eyes on his partner, watching her drift into slumber. Roe didn't even look like her usual self when she was asleep—the harsh arch of her eyebrows ( _villain brows_ , she jokingly called them,  _I could have played Maleficent_ ) softened and the lines in her forehead disappeared, and it almost seemed as if she was smiling (not that she didn't smile when she was awake, but she didn't smile like that, not softly and peacefully and almost-secretively). She seemed like a strangely distilled version of her self, of the woman who seemed incapable of sitting still or being quiet during her waking hours (a trait that had caused her partner grief, many, many times).

With a soft shake of his head, Jeff turned his attention to the file that he'd brought along. He wanted to know this incident inside-out by the time they landed in Nairobi, especially since there would be hardly any time to play catch-up once they had boots on the ground. Sadly, there wasn't much information to learn—the local authorities hadn't had time to complete any definitive forensic testing yet (after all, it had been less than forty-eight hours since the stand-off finally ended), and the crime scene was still an absolute muddled mess. Of course, that was the reason that Jeff and Roe were being called in, as forensic analysts. Their mutual specialty was ballistics, but this go-round, they would also be overseeing the collection of fingerprints, DNA samples, and IED materials, all of which would eventually be sent back to FBI's labs. Roe had already bemoaned the fact that their crime scene was certainly already contaminated and compromised by now—and it would be even more so by the time they arrived.

Their supervisor, Dempsey, hadn't been joking when he said that it wouldn't be a cake-walk. Jeff felt that familiar weight settle onto his shoulders as he scanned the file—with a crime scene that was literally the size of an entire shopping mall (which had oh-so-inconveniently been blown to bits by the jihadists' last stand), plus six or seven other agencies vying for a chance to process evidence and information, it would certainly be a grand clusterfuck.

"I don't envy your job," David Rossi's voice quietly interrupted his thoughts.

Jeff looked up, his lips quirking into a wry smile, "Yeah, something tells me that I'm gonna spend the next few days wishing that I'd listened to my mother and became a dentist."

David chuckled in agreement. "I think we'll all have one of those moments, by the time this thing is over."

Jeff frowned slightly as he scanned another sheet of paper, "My main concern is how we will decide which piece of evidence goes to which lab. I mean, we've got intelligence from five different countries, along with local authorities—then you add Interpol to the mix—"

"Interpol?" Rossi sat up, craning to look over the seat at Hotch, making sure that he'd heard. The younger man sat up a little, suddenly interested in the conversation. As the last guys to show up to the JTTF meeting, they had no idea which agencies would be joining them, although they knew their nationalities. Rossi turned back to Jeff, "Any idea who Interpol is sending?"

The other agent shook his head, "No clue."

Rossi returned his attention to Hotch, "Maybe Emily."

Hotch gave a slight shrug, "She would be a good fit—she's worked with American and British agencies, she speaks several languages—"

"Terrorism was always one of her specialties in profiling," Rossi added. "And she has a working relationship with the FBI. They'd be fools not to send her."

David suddenly remembered his manners and turned back to Jeff, "We have a former colleague who runs the London Interpol office. She might be one of the ones they send."

"Except for the fact that she's in a supervisory position," Hotch pointed out.

"So are you, and you're still here," Rossi reminded him.

"Yes, but that's because I wouldn't allow them to send someone else."

"And what makes you think that Emily Prentiss would be any different?" The older man let that question hang in the air for a few seconds before quietly adding, "You two have always been more alike than either of you cared to admit."

"Perhaps," was Aaron's diplomatic-yet-cryptic reply. Dave could tell that his friend did not wish to pursue the conversation, so he wisely turned back around, returning to his own thoughts.

He hoped Emily would be there. He missed her, missed working with her, missed her caustic humor and her dry wit, missed the calm weight that she brought to every investigation. And Dave was pretty certain that he wasn't the only one—though Hotch would never admit such a thing aloud. Still, David Rossi wasn't a master profiler for nothing. He knew the little things he'd seen over the years, and more importantly, he understood their meaning.

Like David, Aaron's mind turned to Emily Prentiss as well. It had been over a year since he'd seen her, though they'd kept in touch via social media and a few technically work-related phone calls here and there (not that he hadn't wanted to call her, just to talk, from time to time, but he'd never felt as if he had the right—unlike the rest of the team, who'd simply been her friends and her partners, he was her former boss, and that somehow created a breach in Hotch's mind).

Of course, there was no sense in wondering if she would or wouldn't be assigned to this task force. He'd know for sure in a few hours.

Regardless of whether or not Emily Prentiss was also currently en route to Kenya, Aaron Hotchner found himself hoping that she was well and in good company. He hoped that she was happy, and most importantly, that she'd finally found the home for which she'd been so desperately searching, for as long as he'd known her.

They had never talked about, and she'd never confessed such a thing to him, but Aaron had always sensed it—after a childhood spent shifting around from one country to the next, and a career spent bumping from one agency to another, Emily Prentiss had created an entire life of being in constant motion. There were no roots, merely temporary harbors, places where she could tether her ship without setting down foundations for a permanent residence. Even when she tried to build a nest, the winds of chance seemed to rip it all away.

That's what had happened when Doyle returned, wasn't it? After Emily's alleged death and subsequent enrollment into protective services, JJ had been the only person to keep in contact with Emily (that was protocol, that was the way things were done, and Hotch would never do anything to jeopardize Emily's cover). However, Emily had called him, once, very late at night—even now, he could recall the hurt and betrayal in her tone ( _why, why did you do this to me?_ ). He had tried to soothe her, to do his very best to explain all of his reasons, to make her see that it was the only choice, the only way to keep her safe, but she had refused to accept it.

_They are my family. You took them from me. And now I can't come home until he's in custody. How long will that take, Hotch?_

They. She hadn't included him in that statement. And he hadn't missed that little slip of the tongue.

He also hadn't missed the word  _home_ , the way she spoke it so longingly, so fervently that it caused a pang in his heart, to know that he was the one responsible for tearing her away from the one place where she had truly established roots and connections.

They had never mentioned that phone call, not even after she returned. And he had watched in silence as she struggled to regain her sense of home, ached as she failed, and dutifully accepted the truth when she finally admitted to her failure. It was his fault. He knew that.

Maybe she had found a home in London. Maybe it was an even better, deeper sense of home than the one she had in Virginia. He hoped so. Emily Prentiss was a strong woman, with a determination to match even the harshest situations. She had done it before; she could do it again.

He had faith in her. If anyone could overcome, it was Emily. That was one of the things he'd always admired about her.

* * *

_**Nairobi, Kenya.** _

"We're here," Emily took a page from Clyde Easter's playbook and didn't even take the time to offer a greeting. They had landed two hours ago, but had immediately been whisked into a briefing. They had finally arrived at their hotel and although she felt as if she might collapse from jetlag, she knew that she still had to call her supervisor.

"Congratulations," Clyde's tone bordered between sarcasm and amusement. "How long has it been, since the last time you had to do a check-in with me?"

"Officially?" Emily's mind traveled back, "Since before Doyle was arrested in France."

"I miss our late night talks."

"Really? Because you never seemed to care for them at the time."

"That's because you always called at four o'clock in the morning, Emily."

"I was undercover."

"You were and still are a sadist who likes depriving people of sleep."

She rolled her eyes at the pronouncement, "Well, I'm calling you now, before four o'clock in the morning, so be grateful."

"As I always am."

She gave a derisive snort at that statement, but wisely chose not to pursue it.

"What's it look like so far?" He became more serious, his voice lined with something that might even qualify as concern.

"Messy." Emily sighed, plopping down onto the hotel bed. "The Kenyan Criminal Investigative Department has been interviewing hostages since yesterday morning, and their Anti-Terrorism Unit has been collecting as much forensic evidence as they can, but from the looks of it, the site is a complete haystack."

"From the looks of it?"

"Well, we arrived so late that we decided not to visit the site until tomorrow morning."

"I see."

For some reason, his response irritated her. She rubbed her forehead in frustration, mentally pulling her emotions back in check.

"You need to get some rest," Clyde's voice became softer. He could obviously sense her aggravation, though she hadn't said a word. "You can't start this thing with nerves that are already run ragged."

"I know," she sighed.

"You'll keep me in the loop on this, won't you?" There was something more than just protocol behind his words ( _let me know that you're alright, Emily_ ).

"I will," she promised. With a wry smile, she added, "It'll be just like old times."

"Watch it, Delilah." He used to call her that, when she was posing as Doyle's lover. It had aggravated the hell out of her (because he got to remain a pristine good solider for his country, while she had to play the double-agent whore), but right now she was too tired to be upset.

"Fuck you, Easter," she replied drolly.

"From what I hear, you'd be the one to do it." Ever the suave agent, he never missed a beat.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" She couldn't stop the wry grin from slipping across her face.

"I'm afraid so." She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was smiling too. "Get some sleep."

"You too." She hung up, taking a beat to simply stare at the ceiling.

It was just like old times—strange hotel rooms in foreign cities, late night calls to her handler (a man who was her friend merely by virtue of their work), frustrating rabbit trails and an unwavering faith that it would all be alright in the end. Sadly, this felt more like home to her than London.

She resumed the line of thought that she'd had when she was leaving her flat this morning—her self-comparison to the little matchstick girl, fruitlessly striking up things that would never last. There was a difference between the two of them, she realized. The matchstick girl stayed in one place, striking her matches until they all burned out. She didn't move and as a result, she froze to death. Emily kept moving. She  _survived_. And within the moving, within the survival, there was a sense of rightness. Maybe that was as close to feeling at-home as she would ever be. And maybe that was quite alright.

It certainly was for now, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a clearer idea of what Jeff and Rowena look like, think Christopher Meloni and Michelle Forbes. Also, for the purpose of this story and in an effort to create some distance between it and the actual event, I have created the fictional country of East Africa. Imagine a small country, in the southeastern corner of the continent, where Somalia and Kenya meet. And, as always, thank you so much for all the reviews, adds, and follows.
> 
> And to Annber03, thanks for Dostoevsky.


	3. Shibboleth

_"Bits of conversation fill my head, Tangling with words we haven't said_   
_Glimpses of a movement you once made, Knowing I could live but dream instead_   
_...Questioning my own reality, Doubting in my mind the things I see_   
_Altering perception fast as light, Do you know for years you've haunted me?_   
_Speaking words you never could recite, Giving bliss as if to test my flight_   
_All is but illusion, this I know, Yet more felt than objects in my sight."_

_~Emilie Autumn, "Visions"._

* * *

_**Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Erin would have loved it here, David decided. Though her job had kept her anchored in Virginia, Erin Strauss had always wanted to travel—she had kept books on the histories and cultures of places like Morocco, Cambodia, Croatia, Singapore, and Peru, stacks of large glossy coffee-table photobooks filled with famous cities and ancient ruins, old issues of National Geographic neatly arranged under trinkets from the places that she had visited. She would have loved all of it, would have relished the sheer exoticism, though her heart would have ached over their reason for visiting. She had always been much more tender-hearted than the rest, when it came to their line of work. He had never fully understood that—how she could still be so easily affected, after decades of peering into the darkest corners of humanity. He often thought that had been part of his strange attraction to her—she had kept her humanity better than any of them, almost defiantly so, and in a way, it had given him part of his own humanity back as well.

Currently, his humanity was being bumped along in a military-issue jeep that had the world's worst suspension (seriously, it made the smooth city streets feel like some rut-filled dirt road), as he and the rest of the international task force were being transported from the airport to their temporary headquarters at the Kenya Police Criminal Investigation Department, better known as the CID. There were six more vehicles behind them, slipping easily through the snarled traffic. For the most part, no one seemed to even notice this military convoy—those who did take a second look weren't wearing expressions of surprise, but something sadder ( _disappointment_ , David thought, disappointment in their government's inability to protect them).

"The British and the Israelis arrived yesterday," their driver, John Mosi Jeptoo, who also happened to be a member of CID's Anti-Terrorism Unit, stated in his almost-lyrical accent. "But the task force that originally brought down the terrorists has already been processing physical evidence since the morning of the final assault. Hopefully this will be a smooth transition."

"Have the Interpol agents arrived?" David asked, taking a second to glance back at Reid and Hotch, who were in the back seat. By now, Reid had been brought up-to-speed on the possibility of Emily's involvement, and he still wore that look of anxious excitement that made him seem only a third of his natural age.

"They have. They are with the Brits."

"Do you remember their names?" Spencer asked.

John shook his head, "There are so many new faces, I can't keep all the names straight. But I do remember that they are from the London office—it's funny to me, because neither one is English. He is Kenyan by birth—Kikuyu, if I had to guess, by the way he speaks Swahili. She is American. "

"What does she look like?" David was certain of the answer—how many other Americans with Prentiss' qualifications could be working at the London Interpol HQ?

"Very tall. Very pale. Very pretty."

David turned back to his BAU team members, "It's her."

* * *

She really needed to stop biting her nails.

Emily knew why her old nervous tic had resurfaced, but she didn't want to think about it. So instead, she glanced up at the wall, tapping her pen against the top of the polished table in the conference room in CID's Anti-Terrorism Unit.

The rest of the joint task force would be here soon—the plane had landed and several vehicles had been sent to pick them up and bring them back here, to begin the bloody business of the day. She and Mika, her partner, had arrived yesterday, but it had been so late that they'd merely gotten a brief update from the Kenyan ATU team before going to their hotel. The morning had started off with another briefing, followed by the Israeli and British forensic team heading out to the site. She and Mika had chosen to stay behind to sort through the photographic evidence that had already been processed. Now they were simply waiting for the rest of the various foreign agencies to arrive.

Well, they weren't simply waiting. Mika was busy pinning glossy full-page photos to a large cork board, quietly muttering to himself as he arranged them into groups—on the left, photos of the Al-Noor Al-Mujahedeen taken from the mall's security feed and various hostage cell phones, and on the right, photos of the bodies that had been brought into the morgue (some victims, some ANAM members, some unknown). On another board, he had a map of the shopping center, plus more photos of various bits of metal and wiring, which were believed to be part of the IEDs used by the hostage-takers.

She smiled softly at Mika's low tone—it was one of those quirks that she first found annoying, but now found comforting. In some ways, he reminded her of Spencer. In other ways, he was his complete opposite—he was more self-assured, more suave, and much more extroverted.

Like Emily, Mika Kimathi was perfectly suited for the task at hand—he was born in Kenya, learning to speak Swahili, English, and Gikuyu interchangeably (all three necessary languages in this region of the world), and after his family moved to England during his teens, he went to Oxford and obtained a degree in International Relations, picking up French, Portuguese, and Hebrew along the way. He also had an acute eye for detail and a brain that housed more arcane information than the Library at Alexandria. Most importantly, he understood the nuances of the region—the deeper meanings of language, culture, and religion that no outsider could truly comprehend without years of immersion.

And currently, he was being more productive than his partner. He stopped for a moment, turning to study Emily's profile, "You want to actually give me a hand on this?"

"Not particularly," she returned easily. "You seem to be doing a fine job on your own."

He merely shook his head, though his mouth was smiling. In truth, he preferred doing this on his own, but he felt the need to make some kind of conversation. He'd been working under Chief Prentiss for over a year now, and he'd learned that they worked best together when they simply left one another alone—an odd formula, but an effective one. Emily Prentiss was someone who worked quickly and quietly, and he liked knowing that she trusted him enough to refrain from micromanaging every step he took. And while he'd come to learn that her reticence was merely part of her personality and not a personal slight towards him, he had to admit that she was being even quieter than usual. More withdrawn, more fidgety. He wasn't sure why this case had her spooked more than any of the others, but they weren't close enough for him to directly ask her what was wrong.

There was a commotion at the office entrance, and Emily was on her feet in a flash, long neck craning to see around the doorframe and into the main bullpen.

Mika watched her like a hawk, taking in the way her hands nervously clasped together, the way she bit her bottom lip and held her breath, the way she rose onto the balls of her feet as if she were preparing to bolt at any second.

Of course. The Americans were sending FBI agents. Perhaps some of Chief Prentiss' former partners. That explained her current excitement—it didn't explain the almost-fearful nervous energy that had been radiating off her in waves since they boarded the plane at Heathrow.

Mika could mark the exact instant that his boss saw a familiar face, because a smile broke across her face like a river bursting its dam, bright and quick and almost unexpected.

David Rossi was the first person whom Emily saw, and she could tell that he knew she was here—whenever he got off the elevator, his dark eyes began to scan the room in a gesture that she knew so well (a small thing that she suddenly realized she had missed).

When he saw her, his expression lit up to match hers.

He knew that she'd be here. Of course he knew. Despite his sometimes-unbearable smart-assery about it, David Rossi always did seem to know these things.

Emily's grin only widened when Spencer Reid appeared behind him, wide-eyed and adorable as always. It faltered at the sight of Aaron Hotchner, but not because she wasn't glad to see him.

"Mia gattina," Rossi's voice was filled with tender warmth as Emily launched into his arms, surprising herself with her own reaction to the sight of her former teammate. He'd started calling her that, after she'd returned from the dead— _gattina_ , little cat, owner of nine lives. She used to laugh and roll her eyes at the nickname, but now it brought tears to her eyes. She missed it.

"How are you?" She asked quietly, still not releasing him from her hug. He squeezed her tighter, and she understood the answer before he spoke.

"I'm OK." There was a sadness, still tinged with gratefulness. The others never really knew how Emily had always tried to care for Rossi when they weren't in the field—she didn't cook him meals like Garcia did, but she'd always made sure to quietly check-in with him whenever she felt that something was bothering him. There had even been a few nights spent curled up on his deck, sipping Jack Daniels or a lovely scotch as they had talked quietly into the evening air.

"I tried to come back for the funeral," she admitted, tears renewing themselves as she felt the warm weight of his hand on her back, patting her reassuringly.

"I know," was the simple reply. "Thank you."

Then David pulled away, offering another smile.

"You look good, cara," he still held her shoulders. She thought that this must be what it felt like, to come home to your parents—constant hugs and terms of endearment, the pride and happiness tinged gentle sadness at seeing so much change. She had never received such a welcome from her own mother, and when she was in college, she had often enviously wondered how it felt to be her other classmates who got to return home for the holidays. Now, she thought perhaps she knew, on some small scale.

"And you look like hell," she countered, her heart warming again when he laughed at her dry quip (he'd never told her this, but sometimes he liked to think that if he had a daughter, she would be smart and crackling and unbelievably brave, like Emily—he never told her because he knew that it would be too much of a burden, and he never wanted her to feel like she had to spend the rest of her life fulfilling some kind of expectation).

"You always know how to make a guy feel special," he returned easily, shaking his head.

"Just trying to keep you humble, Rossi," she assured him, and he laughed.

"Not a chance, gattina."

Now it was Emily's turn to merely shake her head as she rolled her eyes (she knew that the blustery and self-assured Rossi was just a shell, an act that went along with the legend he'd crafted around himself over a decade ago, but she also knew that he loved the tongue-in-cheek ability to play the suave agent, to be able to slip into this odd form of armor, and she would never betray his secret, not in a million years—after all, she understood armor and hiding-in-shells better than most).

Emily had barely taken a step back from Rossi when Spencer pounced, his long arms gently pulling her into another hug. She laughed in relief.

"We knew it'd be you," he informed her quietly.

"I hoped it would be you," she returned, just as gently, and she didn't protest when his grip tightened.

Of all her team, Spencer was the one she worried about the most, and in some ways, the one she missed the deepest. They were creatures of the same mold, cut from the same cloth, destined for the same tribe. He was the closest thing to a kindred spirit that she'd ever found. She had felt every inch of the hole left by his absence, and she'd often hoped that he didn't feel the same (though she knew that he did), just because she hated the thought of being a source of pain for this kind man and his kinder heart.

Finally, Spencer released her, and she turned to her final former team member with anxious eyes. Hotch simply held his arms open and she smiled again as she gladly accepted the offer.

Aaron Hotchner quietly reminded himself that he couldn't behave the way he did last time, when he'd held her in the bullpen, holding on so much longer than anyone else, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could simply keep her there forever. He'd noticed the apprehension in her expression when she first saw him today, and he knew that it was because of what he'd done—he'd betrayed his true feelings, making a mess of years of steady friendship in a matter of seconds.

_Keep it together this time_ , Emily's inner voice chided.  _Don't make it awkward, like you did last time_.

"It's good to see you," he said as he pulled back, taking a moment to simply look at her.

"You, too," she tried not to let her tone get too warm or too soft. She gave him a once over, "You look good. Ran any marathons lately?"

"Haven't had the time," he admitted.

"How's Jack?"

"He's good. Not too happy with me right now—I'll probably miss soccer tryouts, if this takes over a week."

"I'm sorry," Emily said, and she truly meant it.

"It's the job," he replied in his usual stoic manner. "He understands."

Emily didn't point out that she'd understood her own mother's job, but it hadn't made the absences and distance any easier on her as a child—and it hadn't changed the resentment that she'd often felt towards her mother for always choosing the job over her daughter.

She suddenly realized that Mika was standing in the doorway behind her. She took a step back, angling her body to include him in the conversation, "Guys, this is Mika Kimathi—he's the best of the best in the London office. Mika, this is David Rossi, Dr. Spencer Reid, and Aaron Hotchner, from the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico."

David noticed that Agent Kimathi didn't refute Emily's claim of his greatness. He actually liked the man better for it—nothing was more off-putting than a false show of humility. There was a round of handshakes and how-do-you-do's, then Mika motioned back to the conference room.

"We've just begun sorting photographic evidence—perhaps you'd like to take a look? It will give you a chance to collect yourselves before we head out to the crime scene."

Aaron nodded in agreement, and they followed the Interpol agents into the conference room, with the rest of the American, Canadian, and German Task Force members trailing along behind them. Mika continued, "The Israeli forensic team is already on-site—they've been at the scene since yesterday, and the British joined them early this morning."

Emily looked back over her shoulder at the newcomers as she added, "We thought it would be more prudent to wait for everyone else to show up."

"Saves time—playing catch-up only once instead of a dozen times," Hotch agreed. Emily gave a slight smile at his usual brusque approval (such a welcome change from Clyde's usual coyness).

By now, Spencer had slipped past the others to stand next to Mika, observing the pictures on the cork board. Mika helpfully supplied, "We're still trying to sort out who's who. Of the twenty-three hostages that were alive on the final day, nineteen survived the task force assault—the other four were killed due to their proximity to the ANAM members wearing IEDs. According to reports and video footage, we're looking at anywhere between fifteen and twenty ANAM members as well—ten were killed during the take-down, and the rest blew themselves to bits. There are several bodies in the morgue that we're still trying to identify."

In the section of the board reserved for photos of the victims, Mika had tacked a running tally of hostages— _forty, minus fourteen released, minus three killed in escape attempt, minus nineteen survivors._

Spencer reached up to gently tap the number fourteen, "They released the hostages who could prove their Muslim status by quoting parts of the Qur'an."

"A shibboleth, of sorts," Rowena Lewis crossed her arms over her chest as she moved closer to the table, allowing more room for the rest of the task force to fit into the conference room.

Spencer looked at her with a new-found sense of admiration and Jeff Masterson gave her a light nudge ( _look at you go, Miss Smarty-Pants_ ).

"A what?" Mika turned to her in confusion.

"Shibboleth," Spencer took over. "In the Book of Judges, the Ephriamites tried to cross the border back into the Gilead by pretending to be Hebrews—so those wanting to cross were required to say the word  _shibboleth_. The Ephriamite language doesn't allow for a voiceless palato-alveolar fricative phoneme, so they were unable to pronounce it. Those who said  _sibboleth_  were proven to be imposters and put to death."

"Lovely story," David decreed, his face just as deadpan as his voice. Emily bit back a grin (goodness, she'd missed that, actually  _missed_  the smart-assery).

As usual, Dr. Reid was completely unfazed. He continued as if Rossi hadn't even spoken, "Nowadays the word  _shibboleth_  is used to describe a word or custom that differentiates in-groups from out-groups, or similar tests of faith or membership."

"So there definitely is a religious component," Eric Silver, one of the Canadian agents, placed his hands on his hips as he took a moment to simply look at the pictures on the board. "But that never really was a question, was it?"

"Their demands were politically motivated," Emily reminded him. "The fact that they still have a conscionable objection to killing true followers of Islam proves that despite the political nature of their demands, they are still coming from a place of religious devotion."

"Zealotry," corrected Ahoo Shir-Del, another Canadian agent. She crossed her arms over her chest, and Spencer could feel her almost cringing at the sudden amount of attention that her remark had brought her—as one of the only Muslims on the Task Force, she already had a point of similarity between herself and the UNSUBs in a way that the others did not.

"Sorry to interrupt," a small man with an unbelievably deep voice stepped into the room, and all eyes focused on him. "I am Njua Oduya, chief of the Anti-Terrorism Unit and chief of operations for this particular action. I apologize for not greeting you all at the airport—but, as I am sure you can understand, I have been a bit busy this morning. Now that everyone is here, I have arranged for an escort to the crime scene—we will leave in ten minutes. We are converting two more conference rooms into temporary work stations, but we do ask for your patience, as we weren't exactly equipped to take on thirty new agents overnight."

"We understand," Laurenz Blanke, head of the German investigative team, gave a curt nod. "And we thank you again for being so accommodating."

Blanke turned to his agents, giving a few quick orders in German. Two agents nodded and followed him out the door. A third pulled a chair from the conference room table.

"Looks like I drew the short straw," he announced with a small smile. He leaned across the table to offer his hand to Mika and Spencer. "Karl Vetter. I will be assisting you with photographic evidence."

"Mika Kimathi. Welcome to the Short Straw Club," Mika joked easily.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," the younger man waved away the offered hand, and thankfully Vetter didn't seem offended by the gesture.

Ahoo Shir-Del turned to Eric Silver, her supervisor, "I'd like to go to the site, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Eric returned gently (he knew that this case hit close to home for her, made her feel like even more of an outsider in a world turned hostile after years of war and destruction). He turned to the remaining three Canadians. "Whitting, you stay. Samson and Brown, you're with us."

Hotch took a moment to look at Spencer, who merely waved him away, signaling that he was quite alright with staying behind. In a similar fashion, Emily Prentiss made a small motion to Mika, silently asking him if he wanted to go. He shook his head and made a shooing gesture.

"Have you been to the crime scene yet?" Aaron asked as they headed back to the elevators.

Emily shook her head, "It was so late when we got in, and I'd prefer to see it in the daylight. It's easier to miss things in the dark."

"So how's London?" Rossi easily changed the subject. "Has some suave 007 swept you off your feet?"

"If he had, what makes you think I'd tell you about it?" She replied smoothly, and he laughed in response.

"Good girl. Don't kiss and tell."

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth was still smiling.

Aaron Hotchner was smiling, too, but he couldn't deny the strange tug in his chest at the thought of Emily Prentiss with another man.

_Had_. She used subjunctive language, as in it was a possibility but not a current reality. If she really did have someone, she would have used  _has_. But why did it matter? Emily's personal life was certainly none of his business, and he shouldn't begrudge her some happiness. After all, he had Beth.

Beth. She'd been in New York for almost a year now. She still called, and there were occasional weekend trips between their two cities, but the trips were few and far between, and the calls were becoming less and less often.

"I don't really have time for that sort of thing," Emily was speaking to Rossi again, turning to him as they stepped into the elevator. "You know the old saying—power is an aphrodisiac, except when it's worn by a woman. My mother taught me that lesson, all too well."

David simply took a moment to observe the lines of Emily's face—the forced smile that didn't reach her eyes, the taunt line of her lips that showed the old resentment bubbling under her psychological surface. She never really spoke of her parents, but from that little tidbit, David could guess how her childhood was, with a mother devoted to her career and a father resentful of such commitment, who finally couldn't take anymore and left. As far as Dave knew, Emily's father was still alive, but he certainly hadn't been a part of her life—on the rare occasions that Prentiss had spoken of her childhood, her stories always mentioned her mother, but never her father.

She sensed his scrutiny and cut him a quick look ( _don't you dare profile me, Rossi_ ).

He gave a slight shrug as he looked away ( _it's what I do, don't act surprised when I stay true to my nature_ ).

Emily found herself smiling again.

"SSA Rowena Lewis, forensics," a tall brunette offered her hand to Emily as she boarded the elevator with a few other agents. "We didn't have much time for introductions."

"No, we didn't," Emily agreed, shaking the woman's hand. "Chief Emily Prentiss, Interpol."

"I've gotta admit, I feel like I know you already—I've heard a few stories about you from Dr. Reid."

"I can only imagine," Emily rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"Don't worry, he only had the most complimentary things to say," Rowena smiled warmly. "I think you would have to be pretty amazing, to garner such high praise from someone like Spencer Reid."

"Roe's got a little crush on your wunderkind," Jeff Masterson spoke up, directing his comment to Rossi.

"Well, he is adorably delicious," Rowena admitted with a wicked grin.

"Watch it, cougar," Jeff returned lightly.

"You calling me old?"

"No." Jeff's tone implied the opposite. He gave an exaggerated shrug, "I'm just saying you're... _older_  than he is."

Rowena shot him a dark look, though the corner of her mouth quirked into a grin.

"I'm afraid your efforts would be wasted," Rossi piped up. "Our wunderkind is both oblivious and immune to most forms of flirting and flattery."

"Oh, trust me, I could get his attention," Rowena wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Rossi laughed (during the layover in Amsterdam, they'd gotten the chance to simply sit and talk, and they had quickly learned that they shared the same risqué sense of humor).

"Yeah, subtlety isn't this girl's strength," Jeff added in agreement. "Ol' Roe prefers the bull-in-a-china-shop approach."

Rowena elbowed him, rolling her eyes as she returned to Emily, "This charming gentleman is SSA Jeff Masterson."

"How d'you do?" He offered his hand as well. Emily gave a good, solid shake, and he liked that. He steered the conversation back to more appropriate waters by asking, "So, how does Interpol fit into the mix?"

Chief Prentiss gave a slight shrug, "We've got some of the best facial recognition software, which we can use on the mall's security feeds, as well as one of the most extensive criminal databases. We're also the only organization here without ties to any specific nation, which by default makes us the most neutral and unbiased. In the event of a dispute, we'll be handling the arbitration—though I'm hoping that it won't come to that."

Ever the voice of pragmatism, Hotch couldn't help but quietly remind her, "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

* * *

Eric Silver was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes—yes, he'd seen dozens of pictures and press coverage of the crumbling remains of the Central Shopping Center, but something about their 2D nature had made everything seem so...contained.

The scene in front of him was not contained. It was cordoned off with police tape, but the surrounding area was littered with candles and flowers and stuffed animals and cards with prayers and condolences for the victims. Debris still swept across the lot as traffic buzzed around them.

"Holy hell," he murmured. "This is going to be absolute fuckery."

"Fuckery to the tenth degree," Ahoo Shir-Del agreed quietly, tucking her hands into the front of her green khaki cargo pants (that was the one thing she loved about being on foreign field assignments—the ability to ditch the slacks and button-downs for clothes that were actually comfortable). With another heavy sigh, she turned to squint up at her supervisor, "So where do we start, boss?"

"Let's see what's already been done," he moved towards what was left of the mall's southern entrance—the far eastern side of the building was caved in, due to bomb blasts which had taken out pivotal structure points. From the outside, the western side looked untouched, but inside, the entire center was a mess.

The Brits and Israelis were already re-organizing everyone for an update.

"Please, everyone, if we could only do this once," Yonah Zamir, the lead investigator for the Israeli task force, waved everyone closer to her. She had the beautiful profile that declared her Hebrew lineage, with skin that was neither pale nor olive, and deep brown eyes—and in an odd juxtaposition to her skin tone, a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Once the shuffling and whispers had ebbed, she set her hands on her hips and took a deep breath, "Rather than divide evidence collection into subgroups, such as ballistics, fingerprints, or explosives, we have decided to simply place the area on a grid."

One of the British analysts pulled up a schematic on his laptop, turning it so that the others could see. Yonah continued, "We think this is the best way to tackle the situation, but, of course, we are open to suggestions."

There were shrugs and nods of agreement—no one else had a better plan. With a curt nod, Yonah motioned to a long row of tables near the northern entrance, "Once evidence is bagged and tagged, we are placing it here, for transport back to the labs—each table is labeled according to quadrants on the grid. The standard protocol is that all evidence will be processed here, at CID's labs, and then can be shipped to respective agencies for secondary testing and analysis. If the lab in Nairobi does not have the equipment, test materials, or database necessary for analysis, the evidence will be shipped to whichever country's lab does possess such items and can process them the most expediently."

Rowena turned to look at Jeff over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows in slight awe ( _this chick's got the jump on us_ ).

"Now, obviously, in the interest of fair play, agents are allowed to move between quadrants on the grid—though in an effort to reduce redundancy, I don't think each agency should scour every section." Yonah took a moment to look over the group, trying to gauge people's reaction to this statement (she understood the desire to check every square inch for oneself, to be sure that nothing was missed, but their biggest enemy was time—the clock was running and they had no clue as to where or when ANAM would strike next). Thankfully, she was met with more nods of agreement. She continued, "The only stipulation we have about moving to a new quadrant is that you must deliver the evidence from your current quadrant to the processing tables first. We don't want to have the whole thing thrown off because someone places a bullet they found in Quadrant Six on the evidence table for Quadrant Fourteen. Even if you think you will be able to keep things straight in your head, don't try. As you can see, this place is already a nightmare, so let us not add cross contamination or false leads into the mix."

The Brit who was assisting Yonah with the laptop, a smiling man with sleek black hair and black-rimmed glasses, raised his hand to grab everyone's attention, "I am Dr. Ben Arterton, and I'll be overseeing the processing and packaging of evidence—I'm also the guy to whom you need to speak when it comes to questions of who has searched which quadrant, and what they found there. We want to ensure that every inch of this place receives equal inspection, so we will keep a running list of which agencies have analyzed which quadrant. I'm afraid that by the end of it all, you will think of me as a glorified hall monitor, and for that, I apologize in advance."

This earned him a light chuckle from several agents, and he smiled in response. He motioned to the left of the group—to a small area of yet another set of tables, filled with evidence bags, gloves, body suits, and other tools and supplies, "And though this place looks like an absolute cock-up, we are still trying to preserve some sense of containment, so please, follow the same protocol as you would for any other forensic site. We are only requiring full body suits for the Eastern quadrants, due to the high volume of genetic materials left behind."

He didn't point out that the genetic materials were the remnants of the Al-Noor members, after the IEDs had detonated. Even though the bodies had been removed, there was still blood and smaller bits of  _genetic material_ , as Dr. Arterton had so delicately put it.

"Now," Yonah Zamir stepped forward again, motioning for the group to follow her, "We will do a quick walk-through of the event—this of course, is based upon interviews with witnesses and hostages, thanks the Kenyan police force."

Jeff didn't pay too much attention to Zamir's commentary after that—he was too busy glancing around the wreckage, his eyes already searching for the best place to start.

Rowena seemed to read his mind, because she quietly sidled up to him, her tone low and cautious, "We should get into the eastern quadrants first. That's where the most ballistics are going to be, as well as all the IED materials. I don't want to pick over whatever's left behind after everyone else tramples all over it."

"Agreed," he gave a curt nod, taking a quick glance at the people around them. Surely every other forensic analyst had the same idea, which would make this yet another interesting dance of politesse and assertiveness. Thankfully, most of the people here weren't forensics, so some would return back to the CID headquarters to begin investigation and research.

"It's gonna be one of those days, isn't it?" Roe's voice informed him that she already knew the answer to that question.

"Yup," he gave a light sigh, too, sharing her misery. "It's gonna be one of those days."

* * *

"Here's the rest of what the morgue has, so far," Addison Cortez, an American CIA operative, breezed back into the conference room with another stack of folders and photos. The last hour had been pretty productive—Spencer and Mika had arranged all of the photos on the board, matching as many ANAM members as they could from various angles and shots of the security footage, and Karl Vetter had sorted out the most important physical evidence photos, such as ballistics, explosive detonators, and shrapnel, adding them to a separate cork board. George Whitting, the Canadian agent, had taken to the dry-erase board and had charted out a timeline of events, based on the reports of the hostages.

Addison cringed slightly as she opened one of the folders and saw the photos. "Obviously, some of our ANAM members aren't in any shape for accurate facial comparison—thankfully, most of the IED materials remained strapped to the bodies after detonation, so it was a little bit easier to figure out which ones were ANAM and which were hostages."

"Unless some ANAM members weren't wearing IEDs," Mika pointed out.

Addison gave him a look of light exasperation. Obviously she hadn't considered that.

"I will take confirmation of the deceased," Karl Vetter rose to his feet, taking the files from Addison. He motioned to George, "Agent Whitting and I can sort through and match these to the faces on the security footage, as best we can."

George nodded in agreement, literally rolling up his sleeves as he sat down at the table, dutifully taking a stack of files from Vetter.

"I can read the autopsy reports," Spencer volunteered. "I have eidetic memory, so it's probably best if I read them—I'll be able to recall any detail whenever we need it."

Karl Vetter looked up in surprise, an amused smile dancing across his face, "My, my, Dr. Reid. I think you will be very useful to this investigation."

"I hope so," Spencer offered a small smile.

George gave a nod of approval and continued his efforts to match the face on his current file to one of the grainy footage stills on the board. Addison leaned over, slipping a few files from Vetter's stack, "The last two on the bottom are confirmed as non-ANAM —a Dutch tourist and a local store manager—we can put them aside."

Something about the movement of her wrist struck Spencer Reid—the gesture was airy, fragile yet somehow grounded in strength, delicate and graceful.

The way Maeve used to move.

Spencer suddenly looked at the CIA operative with new eyes—aside from her height, she bore no physical resemblance to Maeve at all. Maeve's skin had been porcelain; Addison was mocha, with black almond-shaped eyes that showed her lineage also held something else, perhaps Caribbean or Native American. They were as different as night and day.

So why did he still want to stare at her wrists as if they were the most fascinating things that he'd ever encountered? Why did he want to gently reach out and touch them, as if they were the holy grail itself?

This wasn't fair. Maeve already completely inhabited the world of his dreams, his waking thoughts—she couldn't return to reality in the form of other people. It was one thing to remember how she moved, how she laughed, how she spoke, but there was safety and distance—because even though he never wanted to forget her, he was still able to turn his mind to other things, to distract himself so that he could focus on the task at hand. This was visual reminder, something that could not be controlled by his mind—it was present and constant and silently taunting him ( _you can remember how she moved, you can see it in your thoughts and dreams forever, but you'll never actually see her wrist again, you'll never actually witness her smile or know any of her odd physical quirks—you can dream, you can imagine, you can re-envision, but you'll never witness any of it, ever again_ ).

"Excuse me," Spencer quickly walked out of the room.

"Everything alright?" Mika called after him.

He didn't answer. He kept walking.

Addison turned to watch his retreat before looking back at Mika. The Interpol agent simply gave a shrug and they both went back to their files.

Karl Vetter also watched him leave. After a beat, he smiled at the others. "I like him. He is—I believe the saying goes—an odd duck."

"Yes, that is how the saying goes," George Whitting replied dryly. He was already engrossed in his stack of files again. "And yes, Dr. Reid certainly is an odd duck."

* * *

"You guys headin' back to CID?" Rowena turned to Rossi and Hotch as she quickly threw her long hair into a makeshift bun. The tour was over and they were all back at the southern entrance, where Lewis and Masterson were already prepping to enter the eastern quadrants by donning full forensic regalia.

Aaron Hotchner gave a curt nod, "We need to go over the witness and hostage interviews, see if we can find anything that helps us build a profile—and of course, there's the security footage from the first ten minutes of the initial takeover, before they cut the feed."

He looked away slightly as Rowena whipped off her overshirt (she was wearing a tank top underneath, and he briefly felt embarrassed at how prudish his actions made him seem). To make things worse, she'd noticed, and she was grinning again. Thankfully, she didn't say anything.

"We'll let you know if we find anything," Jeff was already in his white jumpsuit, zipping it over his broad chest. He corrected his statement, "Well, obviously we'll find things. We'll just let you know if it's something that will help your assessment."

Rossi gave a polite smile, "Thanks. We appreciate it."

Erin Silver approached, motioning towards the parking lot, "We've got a ride back to headquarters, if you'd like to join us."

Rowena Lewis simply took a moment to smile at him. He was tall, slender without seeming skinny, with hair that was more salt than pepper and ice blue eyes and a smooth, low voice that could charm the moon from the sky—he was the polar opposite of Dr. Reid in age and demeanor, yet still very much on the same scale of deliciousness.

Silver noticed her smile and seemed a bit flustered by it. "Well, if you'll excuse me, we're leaving in the next few minutes—I need to get the rest of my team."

He headed back to the evidence tables.

Rossi, who had witnessed the exchange, turned back to Lewis with a look of feigned disapproval. "You just like toying with people, don't you?"

"It passes the time," she grinned again, this time with a sparkling deviousness that made Rossi laugh.

"Good luck," Hotch gave a small wave to the two forensic analysts as he and Rossi turned to go.

Once they were alone again, Jeff quietly shook his head, "Really, Roe?"

"What? I like men." She zipped up her suit. "It's certainly not a secret."

"But do you really have to make it so obvious?"

"Oh, c'mon. Silver has those gorgeous baby blues. You know I can't resist."

"That's because they remind you of me," he informed her, his tone laced with feigned cockiness as he grabbed a set of gloves and protective shoe covers and slipped them into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

"Absolutely. You know that's what I do at night—lie awake thinking of your eyes," she rolled her eyes in sarcasm, grabbing her own gloves and shoe covers. She pulled the hood of her suit over her head, tightening the strings so that it framed her face and kept her hair out of the way. She kept her tone light, conversational, though it was still obviously guarded as she asked, "Speaking of lying awake at night, did you call your wife and tell her that we made it here safely?"

"Yup." There was an odd change in Jeff's tone, too. He moved towards the entrance, where someone had stacked their large black pelican cases filled with tools and collection materials. She followed him, grabbing a case as well.

"Good." She gave a curt nod. She considered asking  _and how is your wife?_ , but thought perhaps that would seem too forced. For the most part, they didn't truly talk about their lives outside of work, though they were closer than most colleagues. Sometimes she wondered if that slim gold band on his finger was the only thing that kept him from pursuing something beyond their occasional banter. She also wondered if she was simply deluding herself into thinking that he even saw her in such a light.

Gods, she was a regular soap-opera, being enamored of a married man.

Eric Silver walked by again, and she gave another softer, shyer smile ( _boldness scares him, so let's pull it back and see if he bites_ ).

This time, he smiled back.

_Game on_. She might be emotionally committed to a man whom she couldn't have, but that wouldn't stop her from physically enjoying other men.

And if it just so happened to make Jeff Masterson think that she wasn't attracted to him, well—two birds, one stone.

* * *

Emily Prentiss was already in the vehicle, dark shades on as she stared out the window. Hotch got in first, sitting next to her. Rossi jumped in second, slightly jostling the younger man, "Move over a little bit, so we can fit another."

Hotch obliged, and his repositioning put his shoulder firmly against Emily's, hips and knees aligned as well. She shifted slightly, almost flustered by the contact, and tried not to let it show. However, Hotch noticed (of course) and immediately assumed that it was because she was remembering how awkward he had made their last goodbye over a year ago.  _See, Aaron, this is why you never said anything, and why you should have never made it so obvious whenever you said goodbye—now she feels awkward and off-balance, and as usual, it's because of you._

Ahoo Shir-Del slipped onto the seat next to David Rossi—with her petite frame, there was still plenty of room. David smiled to himself. He still wasn't going to shift back over, so that Aaron and Emily could have more space between them.

Sometimes certain… _events_  just needed a little push.

David Rossi was nothing if not an instigator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shibboleth story mentioned by Reid is found in Judges 12:5-6. Though I think most people are aware of it due to The West Wing episode of the same name.


	4. Stirrings

_"Eyn ashan bli esh. (There is no smoke without fire)"_

_~Hebrew proverb._

* * *

_**Criminal Investigative Division (CID) Headquarters. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

For most of his life, Spencer Reid had feared going off the deep end, but he had never imagined that it would be like this.

He had rightly feared inheriting his mother's illness, had held his breath during the months leading up to his thirtieth birthday, had kept vigilant watch over his own senses and emotions, trying to predict and prevent a break before it started.

However, in a twist of fate which would suggest that God was a French absurdist, it wasn't genetics that caused his current mental instability, but rather unforeseen onslaughts of memory and emotion brought on by a relative stranger's wrist.

A wrist. He was losing his mind over a  _wrist_.

_This is the way the world ends._

With an aggravated sigh, Spencer rubbed his forehead, as if trying to erase the stupid emotional reaction from his mind.

It wasn't Addison Cortez's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. There was no logical explanation, no genetic marker, no biological imbalance—it was purely psychological, a completely unwarranted and unexpected cause.

And to think, everyone had been worrying over whether or not David Rossi would be able to handle this case—no one had actually voiced that concern aloud, at least not in front of Spencer, and yet, he had seen it in their faces, the moment that Hotch had announced the assignment. Penelope had bitten her lip as her big doe eyes had darted across the table at Rossi, Morgan had shifted in his seat, hand automatically going to his chin as he'd casually looked around the room, and JJ and Alex had simply looked at each other, communicating in that telepathic way that women always seemed to possess with one another. Even he had spared a glance in the older man's direction (quickly, discreetly, because even in his mourning, David Rossi didn't miss a beat).

Maybe he should have kept his scrutiny closer to home.

A transport van drove past, turning into the personnel parking lot at the side of the building, and Spencer's gaze followed it with mild interest. Two Kenyan CID investigators got out, followed by Agent Shir-Del—Spencer made a mental note to show a little kindness to her, to make her see that no one was going to judge her or vilify her for her faith (though she'd probably endured much worse, living in North America in a post-9/11 world). He knew, better than most, how it felt to be an outsider, and he'd do whatever he could to spare someone else from such a feeling. Then came Rossi, Hotch, and Prentiss, followed by Eric Silver, two Germans, and another man whom hadn't been with them earlier—obviously a member of either the Israeli or British team.

"Everything alright?" Hotch's eyebrow quirked in askance as he approached.

"Just needed some air," Spencer informed him. Now that he was surrounded by familiar faces, he felt his edginess melting away (because Emily was here, she wouldn't let him go crazy, no, she'd drag him kicking and screaming back to sanity, just as she had before, and there was a sense of solidarity in knowing that the people standing next to him could empathize with his pain, and would do anything to keep him sane—and for now, that was all he needed to readjust his mind and focus on the job again).

"Find anything yet?" Emily asked.

"We've only positively identified twelve ANAM members—according to all the statements, there were at least fifteen, and from the video feed, we've been able to determine there's probably seventeen or eighteen."

"Jesus," Emily's voice was soft, almost heartbroken, as she shook her head. However her tone resumed its usual professional air as she asked, "So what's the hold-up on the other IDs?"

"Some of the bodies were so badly disfigured by the blasts that DNA will be the only way to identify them," Spencer answered. "The problem is that we don't have any samples on file."

"They're all first timers," Rossi spoke up. "They've probably been preparing this for years."

"U.N. troops moved into East Africa during the mid-90s to stop the mass genocide that was occurring on an almost-daily basis," Emily moved towards the front entrance, and her three former team members followed her. "The rest of the world didn't really notice—or even know, for that matter—because the media focused on Bosnia."

"So they've basically had twenty years in which to plan their attack." Hotch surmised, giving a slight nod of greeting to the police officer stationed at the front desk, who waved them on (there was no need to check IDs—the Americans had a way of always standing out).

"Most of the men on the video appeared to be in their mid-20s," Spencer pointed out as he pushed the elevator button.

"But their generals wouldn't be," Rossi reminded him. He turned to Hotch as they boarded the elevator. "If they've had twenty years, then there's bound to be a test-run somewhere—my guess would be somewhere closer to home. We need to go back, start from when the United Nations sent troops into East Africa, and look for smaller-scale takeovers, not just in malls, but in large public arenas."

"It's going to be a longer list than you'd imagine," Emily warned. "This region of the world stays in a constant cycle of violence and war—there's a reason that the border between Somalia and East Africa is called the Gaza Strip of Africa."

Rossi patted Reid's shoulder, "Thankfully, we've got the adorably delicious Dr. Reid and his wonder-brain on our side."

Spencer Reid looked at the older man as if he'd grown a second head. Emily and Aaron burst into laughter.

"It's...a long story." Emily was laughing so hard that she could barely get the words out.

"Well, I feel it's definitely a story worth hearing," he informed her, his glance moving from one colleague to the next, waiting for someone to explain.

"Don't look at me," Hotch held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. "I couldn't possibly."

He laughed again, that funny little laugh of his that always made Emily laugh even harder.

Reid turned back to Rossi, who mercifully answered his unspoken question, "You've got a secret admirer, kid."

"Who?"

"That would be counter-productive to the 'secret' part," Rossi informed him with a smirk.

"You guys suck."

This only increased Hotch and Prentiss' giggles.

"I'll make a bet with you," Rossi tucked his hands into his pockets easily. "If you can figure out who it is, I'll give you a box of my best pre-embargo Cuban cigars."

"I don't smoke."

"Then you can sell 'em on the black market. Besides, I'm not too worried—you won't guess it anyways."

Emily and Aaron exchanged amused glances. Typical Dave, goading poor Spencer on.

The elevator dinged as it reached the Anti-Terrorism Unit's floor, the doors sliding open. As soon as they stepped into the unit, Spencer Reid answered with unwavering certainty, "SSA Lewis."

The look of utter shock on David Rossi's face was epically priceless.

"Whoa," Prentiss stopped as well, looking at Spencer with newfound appreciation. " _You_  actually  _noticed_  that a woman was flirting with you?"

"I wouldn't call it flirting—based on her level of friendliness with members of the opposite sex, she wasn't treating me with any special preference," Spencer corrected her, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's just that Rossi used the word  _delicious_. It's not a word commonly used in the English language, at least not when referring to people, and therefore can be used as a distinguishing idiolect."

"I'm assuming there's a point to this," Rossi commented dryly. By now, he'd recovered from his initial shock and wasn't exactly thrilled at the thought of losing a box of perfectly good cigars to a man who would never truly appreciate them.

"In the twenty-eight hours that I have known Agent Lewis, she's used the word  _delicious_  approximately thirty-two times."

Aaron Hotchner wasn't making a sound, but his shoulders were still moving with unvoiced laughter. Dave shot him a dark look, "Don't even."

"I wasn't going to," the younger man assured him.

"I think I'll send the cigar box to my mom," Spencer decided. "She likes collecting those kinds of things. Is it a nice box?"

The disdainful glare that David Rossi sent his way would have turned a lesser man to stone. "Those cigars cost more than you spend on books in an entire  _year_. Everything about them is  _nice_."

"Well that doesn't mean much—I buy bargain books from old libraries, so my book budget isn't really that high —"

"Oh, Mio Dio," David gave a longsuffering roll of his eyes. He held up his hands, "I can't do it; not in good conscience. It would be a mortal sin to waste such good cigars."

"Aw, c'mon, Rossi. You promised." Now Spencer was grinning madly, obviously proud of himself and his ability to outfox the infamous David Rossi. "A bet's a bet, no need to be a sore loser."

"Remind me to push you out the escape hatch on the flight back to Amsterdam."

Emily laughed again, wiping away the tears that were already in her eyes from laughing so hard. "Ah, man, I've missed you guys."

"We've missed you, too, gattina," Rossi assured her with a warm smile, lightly patting the small of her back as they entered the conference room.

Spencer couldn't stop himself from glancing at Addison Cortez, who was standing in front of dry-erase board, hands on her hips as she studied the timeline.

Her wrists didn't look like Maeve's right now. Maybe they never had. Maybe he was hallucinating.

Rossi noticed the young doctor's sudden change in demeanor—he quietly leaned over to ask, "Y'okay?"

"I think so," Spencer tried to answer truthfully. Rossi seemed to understand the meaning behind his words, because he simply nodded (and Spencer instinctively knew that while Rossi wasn't pursing the matter any further at this point, this conversation certainly wasn't over—and there actually was something comforting in that, in knowing that someone cared enough to make sure that he really was alright).

"We need to start looking through all incidents reports from East Africa," Emily was speaking to Mika now, who was nodding as he accepted orders. "Tag all events in which either ANAM claimed direct responsibility or there's a strong resemblance to ANAM activities."

"Al-Noor Al-Mujahedeen has only been in known existence since the early 2000s," Addison Cortez pointed out. "The current heads of ANAM banded together from previous extremist groups—I had an analyst in our Northeast-Central African department pull together a history of the region before we left Langley; I can get you the information."

"Thanks," Emily gave a curt nod. While Interpol definitely had that information in its database, it would certainly cut out several hours of searching and researching and tracking down connections, if someone simply handed them a list of all former ties.

Addison moved across the room, to a box of files that she'd brought with her. After a few moments of shuffling through folders, she pulled one from the box with flourish, handing it to Emily with a smile, "Our first inter-departmental sharing of information."

"Let's hope they all go this smoothly," Emily returned the smile. Then she glanced up quickly, as if struck with an idea. "Mika, I need you to scan this documents and forward them, along with a second encrypted message including Interpol database pass-codes."

"You're not keeping this in-house?" Her partner's face skewed in confusion.

"No," she answered simply. She turned back to Hotch, "I can't think of a single person who could find anything we need faster than Penelope Garcia."

He grinned in agreement.

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.** _

There were precisely nineteen and two-thirds ceiling tiles in her office, excluding spaces left out for those icky fluorescent lights.

That was the kind of day that Penelope Garcia was having—the kind that was so dead and so boring that she'd resorted to counting ceiling tiles.

The phone at her desk rang. A quick glance informed her that it wasn't a familiar number, so she politely answered, "Technical Analyst Garcia."

"I know I'm not Derek Morgan, but surely I've earned a warmer greeting than that."

The blonde let out a squeal that probably scared half the building. "Emily! Oh, my darling girl, is that you?"

"Yes, m'am." There was a smile in Emily's voice, a warmth that bubbled into an almost-laugh.

"So are you in the African wilderness with my other loves?"

"Good grief, did Reid tell  _everyone_  that he thought I was gonna be here?"

"Well, he told me, and that's all that matters." Penelope twirled one of her fuzzy pens between her fingers, "So that's a yes?"

"Yes. I'm here. And they're actually standing next to me."

"Please tell me that you called because you need a wise and powerful oracle to help you on your noble quest."

She could feel Emily grinning again, "If you're not too busy—"

"I'm never too busy for you. In fact, you called at the perfect time."

"Oh, shit, I forgot about the time difference. What time is it there?"

"A little after nine o'clock in the morning. You're seven hours ahead; I checked before the guys left. And don't worry, I'm available 24/7 for you, my love. Now, give me something to do."

"We just scanned some CIA documents —check your email, they should be—"

"Got 'em." Penelope took a moment to glance at the list. "Oh, my. Looks like some scouring is in my future."

"Scouring indeed. Look, I've got clearance codes to get you into Interpol's database—"

"Ooh, give 'em to me, baby." Penelope tossed her fuzzy pen back into the large coffee mug filled with various other writing utensils, all bedazzled and befeathered. Her fingers were already flying across the keyboard as she because cross-referencing the various groups on the CIA document.

"Mika's sending them now."

"Who's Mika?" Penelope perked up.

"My partner. You'd like him."

"Mm-hmm...and why would I like him, exactly?"

"One word: Moreid."

"Moreid…." Penelope's face skewed in confusion as she tried to solve the riddle, "Like Morgan and Reid rolled into one?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Such a man exists?"

"Yup."

"You lucky girl."

"No."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Boo."

"I know."

"He's in the room with you, isn't he?" Penelope guessed. "That's why we're talking in girl-code, right? Not that I mind girl-code. I don't get to use it much around here."

"Yes." Emily gave a little laugh. "And now they're all looking at me and wondering what we're talking about."

"Let 'em wonder. I like having secrets with you." Another notification popped up on her screen and Penelope gave a triumphant smile, "Got the pass-codes. Accessing as we speak...good golly miss molly, what a lovely system you guys have at Interpol."

"If you say so." Obviously Emily had never used the database—not that she would possess the background to truly appreciate its structure like Penelope did.

"Oh, I do say so. I very much say so. Tell Hotch to put this on my Christmas wish list—the things I could do with a system like this..."

"I'll see what I can do." Emily promised dryly.

"You're such a doll. Now what am I looking for, exactly?"

"Any and all attacks by any of these groups, as well as Al-Noor Al-Mujahedeen—go as far back as 1994, right before the United Nations sent troops to occupy East Africa. Look for any situations involving hostages, large public areas such as sports arenas, shopping malls—"

"I get the idea," Penelope assured her.

"We're specifically looking for any event that could have been a dress rehearsal for this one."

"Copy that." The blonde gave a curt nod. "I'll call you as soon as I've got something."

"Thanks, Garcia."

"Always, lovey. And Emily?"

"Yeah?"

"Moreid? Really?"

"I had to get creative."

"You should be one of those tabloid reporters that names celebrity couples."

"It's good to know I have a backup, just in case Interpol doesn't pan out."

Penelope grinned at her friend's deadpan wit, "Keep my boys safe—oh, and how...how is Rossi?"

There was a beat, in which Penelope was certain that Prentiss silently assessed the older man, "Fine, for now."

They were speaking in girl-code again, because David Rossi would rather die than know that they were talking about him, much less worrying over him. "Will you take extra special care of him?"

"You know I will," Emily's voice was warm, soft. "Happy hunting."

Penelope hung up, her fingers still typing as her brain went into autopilot mode—she could do this in her sleep (and probably had, actually), because after so many years, it had become ingrained into her as a muscle-memory reflex. Even on a slightly different (and way better) database, it wasn't that hard to navigate.

These were the moments when she didn't like her job—or, more correctly, she didn't like the fact that her job kept her here, so far away from her family, so unable to physically hold them and somehow protect them. She'd never felt the helplessness as acutely as she did now—even when they were across the country, they were never more than a few hours away by plane, and at least they were on the same continent.

Of course, it didn't help that she was still fidgety over the whole Replicator thing—the thought of her friends being out in the field for so long, so unprotected, frightened her more than she cared to admit.

She was glad that Emily was with them, though she hated the fact that it meant that yet another person whom she loved was in a semi-dangerous position. Emily Prentiss would have their backs, and she was one of the calmest, most level-headed people that Penelope Garcia had ever known.

It also didn't hurt that Emily also seemed to have the luckiest winning streak against death and destruction in all of recorded history, either.

Penelope gave a smug smile at that last thought.

Her girl was unstoppable.

Not that today's current villains were that hard to stop—they were all in body bags in a morgue in Nairobi...still, the point was that Emily Prentiss could and would kick international ass, with the help of her brilliant bestie Penelope (of course).

Results from her latest search began scrolling across the screen. Her perfectly-painted lips split into a wide grin. The top three results had almost all the necessary markers.

_Score a point for Team Penemily._

* * *

_**CID Headquarters. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

"Does your analyst have the proper clearance for such sensitive information?" Addison Cortez asked softly, her tone more curious than judgmental.

Aaron Hotchner gave a small smile—if she only knew of Penelope Garcia's ability to circumvent propriety in any arena.

"Well, she does now," David Rossi pointed out dryly, moving across the room to study the timeline and the photos on the cork boards. He turned back to the others, "So, we've only identified twelve ANAM members so far?"

"Thirteen," George Whitting pushed another file across the table. He had the look of a man who was perpetually exhausted by life, with deep lines in his face, heavy bags under his eyes, and a hangdog expression, yet he never seemed to treat anyone with anything less than respectful politesse. He was, in some ways, like David Rossi —a man run ragged by his profession, but still passionate about his work, for it was his true calling.

"We have the names of the other two deceased victims—we are trying to match dental records," Mika added.

John Mosi Jeptoo entered the room, holding up a flashdrive, "Here we are—sorry it took so long, but with so many interviews, and so many other open cases—"

"No excuses necessary," Mika waved away the thought. "We understand, Officer Jeptoo—and we're here to help, not to add to the burden."

Jeptoo gave a grateful smile, handing over the flashdrive to Mika, who returned to his laptop. Emily moved to stand over Mika's shoulder, glancing over at Rossi and Hotch as she quickly explained, "Once we enhance the security footage as much as possible, we'll run the faces through our facial recognition software."

"Which will only help us if any of the hostage-takers had a criminal record," Whitting pointed out, almost regretfully. He was always the voice of pragmatism, but he didn't always like being so, especially when the outcome was likely a negative one. "Most of these are just boys, barely in their twenties—probably recruited in their early teens, groomed and trained for this one mission alone. They will have spent their entire existence under the radar."

"Better to try and fail, than to not try and never know," Karl Vetter remained philosophical.

"I agree," Whitting assured him. "I'm just pointing out that while we're trying, we shouldn't get our hopes up."

Addison Cortez glanced over at the board filled with the lifeless faces of the victims. She couldn't help but think that hope left this place a long time ago.

* * *

_**Central Shopping Center. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Yonah Zamir leaned against the evidence table, giving a light sigh as she winced, her hand automatically going to the small of her back.

"You alright, Agent Zamir?" Dr. Arterton noticed her actions, taking a step closer as his face lined with concern.

"Major Zamir," she corrected, tapping the insignia on her sleeve that marked her as a  _Rav Seren_. "And yes, I am alright."

"Apologies, Major."

"No need for apologies, Doctor." She forced a smile, stamping down the pain radiating from her back. "You did not know."

He gave another wobbly smile, and not for the first time, Yonah thought that this man's nervous energy certainly couldn't be good for his health—he was much too fidgety.

"It looks as if we'll clear away the rest of the rubble in Quadrant 36 by the end of the day," he changed the subject, nodding in the general direction of the eastern side of the mall. The IED blasts had taken out three major support pillars, resulting in a structural collapse—hydraulic jacks had been put in place to ensure that the rest of the building remained in-tact and to prevent further caving, but the CID team was still (very carefully) removing large chunks of concrete, metal, and various odd pieces of clothing and handbags and designer shades and gadgets from kiosks.

The major gave a curt nod of approval, resuming her inspection of the evidence tables.

"Would you—I've got some pain medicine, in my med kit—would you care for some?" Dr. Arterton followed her with a hesitant step.

She turned back to him, taking a moment to simply size him up. Then she gave a small nod, "That would be appreciated, thank you."

With another smile, he went off to grab the pills. Zamir's hands went to her back again, fingers kneading and pressing the muscles that were aching in protest—normally, she was pretty good at masking the pain, but the effects of so many hours of travel with so few hours of rest had caught up to her.

"Here we are," the doctor returned with a handful of pills and a bottled water.

"These will not make me...ah, how do you say—"

"Loopy?"

She smiled at the word, "Yes. Loopy."

"No. They'll just stop the pain."

She dutifully took the pills, though she knew that Dr. Arterton's statement wasn't entirely true—perhaps the pain would lessen, but it would never truly stop. She had taken a bullet to the spine for her country almost twenty years ago, and thanks to a handful of skilled surgeons, it hadn't affected her in the least until the birth of her second child four years ago. It had been a hard birth, much harder than her first, and it had somehow exacerbated the nerve damage. She'd lived in almost-constant pain ever since (she often told her husband:  _Let no one say that I never proved my loyalty to the future of my country or my lineage—I prove it again and again, every day_ ).

"Jetlag?" Dr. Arterton guessed.

"Motherhood," she replied drolly. "The most dangerous profession of all."

He smiled again. She wondered if he was capable of any other reaction.

"Remind the excavators to be careful," she changed the subject. "There should still be two more bodies under there."

He nodded in agreement—the morgue had called earlier to say that they'd finished processing all of the dismembered bodies, and there were two bodies still completely unaccounted for. There was a medical examiner's team on stand-by, waiting for instant that those bodies were unearthed from the rubble.

With one last smile and a slight readjustment of his black-rimmed glasses, the doctor disappeared again.

Chava Azoulay, another member of the Israeli team, rounded the corner with a plastic tub full of evidence bags.

"Yoter min esreem ush'moneh," she announced, setting the tub on the edge of the table as she began unpacking the various plastic bags filled with bits of evidence. "More from 28."

Yonah glanced over at the younger agent—with her deeply tanned skin, dark hair, and a malachite eyes, Chava looked like the child of North Africa that she truly was, and perhaps something closer to what their wandering ancestors must have looked like. In her late teens, Chava had left her native Morocco to return to the homeland, and she had used her impressive analytical skills to defend it ever since.

With a quick glance to make sure that no one else was within earshot, Chava shifted closer to her team leader, quietly asking in their native tongue, "Do you think it is him?"

"Yes." Yonah replied. "But until I know for sure, we will not say anything. There is no need to send the investigation down a rabbit trail until we know for sure that we are hunting rabbits."

Chava nodded in agreement, depositing the last of her evidence bags onto the table and easily setting the plastic tub on her hip again. "And what if we are hunting rabbits? How much time will we have wasted, waiting for the others to realize the truth?"

"If there is blood, it will be on my head," Yonah's dark eyes hardened as she rose to her full height. "It will be no concern of yours, Azoulay."

Chava instinctively took a step back. She hadn't meant to goad her superior, but rather point out a possible issue. However, she had learned a long time ago that Major Zamir didn't care for excuses, apologies, or backpedaling of any form, so she simply gave a curt nod and walked away.

With another heavy sigh, Yonah Zamir made her way to the northern entrance—some of the glass doors and windows had been blown out entirely, and the empty parking lot just beyond the broken glass made it look like a scene from some post-apocalyptic film. She stepped into the late afternoon sunshine, squinting as she watched the traffic roll by.

Agent Azoulay had a valid point. Time was of the essence and it wasn't on their side—how long could they afford to wait, silently hoping that the others made the connection?

It wasn't her job to share information. It was her job to obtain it, and to act upon it. If her hunch was correct, then she would relay the information back to her superiors at Ha-Mossad. The Kidon would take care of it from there.

Perhaps it was best if the other agencies never made the connection. After all, the Kidon was Israel's most secretive and elite counter-terrorism and assassination unit—it would be better for all involved if no one else knew that Israel was aware of who was behind this. That way, whenever this man was finally taken out like the rabid dog that he was, no one would be able to connect it back to the Kidon—or more importantly, back to the nation of Israel.

She would not hinder the investigation, nor hide or tamper with evidence—her moral compass was too strong to condone such activity, for her honor was all that she had—but she would refrain from volunteering information. There was a difference. A very small one, but still a difference.

Hopefully Agent Zoulay understood that. And if she didn't—well, as Yonah had pointed out before, the blood would be on her own head.

* * *

_ "I am not virtuous. Our sons will be, if we shed enough blood to give them the right to be." _

_ ~Jean-Paul Sartre. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if my Hebrew is off...it's been ages since Hebrew class, and I've never had to transliterate from Hebrew alefbet to our Latin text.


	5. Day's Long Journey Into Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very very very special THANK YOU to Annber03 for beta-reading this first section, for listening to all my writery-angst and helping me clear out the muddled parts. And for being my always-on-call Reidologist.

_"It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done. Let it be. The night is dark. Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives rest…The night is quiet. Let the quietness of Your peace enfold us, all dear to us, and all who have no peace. The night heralds the dawn. Let us look expectantly to a new day, new joys, new possibilities."_

_~The New Zealand Prayer Book._

* * *

_**CID Headquarters. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Ahoo stepped into the empty room, taking a moment to reorient herself in the proper direction for her afternoon salat—though she was granted leniency due to travel, she still tried to perform her prayers as punctually as possible. Thankfully, being a Shia Muslim meant that she performed her five daily prayers at three distinct times, instead of the five separate salats adhered to by the Sunnis.

Current conditions also kept her from performing true ablution, or wudu, so she resorted to tayammum—taking pure dust from a small satchel in her purse and applying to her hands and face, reciting the Bismillah ( _In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful_ ) and the Shahadah ( _There is no god but God, Mohammed is the messenger of God, and Ali is the friend of God_ ), and hoping that Allah would see the pure intention behind her imperfect offering.

She took a moment to inwardly thank Eric Silver for quietly taking her aside and mentioning that this room wouldn't be in use for a little while, since they were still sorting out the other conference room which the Anti-Terrorism Unit had so generously relinquished to the international task force—her supervisor hadn't said anything else, hadn't mentioned why she would need somewhere quiet and private, and she had been grateful for his consideration. He was a kind man, and for that, she thanked Allah every day—not everyone was that respectful of her faith, and sometimes their ignorance and disrespect transferred to a direct grudge against her, though she'd never raised a hand to harm any human being (well, except her brother, they'd fought like cats and dogs as kids, but that was different).

She gently pulled her prayer mat from her black go-bag, rolling it out onto the floor as she turned her body and her mind towards Mecca.

Something tugged at the back of her mind.

Salat. One of the Five Pillars of Islam. True believers must pray five times daily.

If the members of Al-Noor Al-Mujahedeen were truly zealots, they would have done their best not to miss prayers.

So who kept watch over the hostages while everyone was praying?

She hadn't even made it to the opening takbir ( _Allahu Akbar, God is the greatest_ ), and she was already rolling up the mat, slipping it back into her bag as she simply grabbed her shoes.

Mecca would still be standing at sunset—she'd have to make up for all her missed prayers at Maghrib, the evening prayer.

* * *

"I need to see the interview transcripts," Ahoo Shir-Del breezed into the main conference room, tossing her black duffel bag into a nearby chair. She noticed that aside from George Whitting and Karl Vetter, the rest of the Canadians and Germans weren't in the room—they must have still been prepping the second conference room. Currently, it was the two Interpol agents, one CIA operative, the three BAU agents, plus Vetter and Whitting, all seated around the table, skimming over autopsy reports and hostage interview transcripts.

"Why the hell are you barefoot?" Mika asked.

"Afternoon prayer," Emily Prentiss answered before Ahoo could, her voice surprisingly soft.

"Yes," she said, taking a breath and waiting for a reaction that never came. So she continued, "They released the Muslims—that proves some religious aspect, right? All of our information and research suggests that ANAM identifies with Sunni Islam. But if they were truly followers, they would have to perform salat five times daily—there is no leniency in this, especially not for the most devoted zealots. And if I knew that I was going to die soon, I think I would make sure that I never missed a single prayer—it is the performance of salat that differentiates between nonbelievers and believers, according to the  _Sahih Muslim_."

A brief glance around the room informed her that no one else knew what the  _Sahih_  was. She explained, "The  _Sahih_  is the second-most authentic hadith, or tradition—um, a  _gospel_ , if you will—in Sunni Islam. They would have studied this—and more importantly, they would have followed its instruction. They would not have missed prayer."

Spencer Reid was already following her line of thought, flipping through the stacks of hostage interviews taken by the CID, "Right here, one hostage says that two of the men never participated in prayer—'when the others went to pray, we were always guarded by the same two men'. The investigator asks for a description, but the hostage merely says that it was the two oldest men—'they were older, and they did not look like the others, or talk like them, either...they seemed to be the ones in charge'."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Addison Cortez crossed her arms over her chest.

"The shot-callers weren't religious," George Whitting leaned forward, his tone slow, as if he was absorbing his own words. "But the soldiers beneath them were. The younger ones were probably taken off the streets as young children, raised and indoctrinated in a misconstrued ideology—"

"Common M.O. for building terrorist organizations," Rossi agreed with a curt nod. "The sheep believe in the cause but the shepherds are just using it as an excuse—Hitler 101."

"So our focus needs to be on these two men," Hotch surmised.

"They sounded differently than the others," Ahoo pointed out, leaning against the table so that she could keep her balance as she slipped her shoes back onto her feet. "The others are all East African locals, but these two—we're looking for someone from a different background entirely. Someone who has made terror their career."

"Someone who will most likely have a record," Mika added, glancing back at his laptop, where the security footage was currently cycling through an enhancement program.

"Good call, Lion-Heart," George gave a curt nod of approval to Ahoo. She merely smiled.

"We need to call Garcia," Hotch looked over at Emily, who was seated next to him.

The brunette nodded, grabbing her cell phone off the table and handing it to him, "Use mine. International calls are covered."

He gave a small smile of thanks as he redialed the last number that Emily had called—Penelope Garcia's direct line.

A familiar voice greeted him, "Speak and be heard, my porcelain-skinned goddess."

Emily was sitting close enough to hear Penelope's voice on the other end of the line, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as she snorted.

"I'm not sure if I should be offended or flattered," Hotch admitted, though he couldn't stop himself from grinning as he glanced over at Emily, who was practically dying with glee. She was glowing, something he hadn't seen her do in a very long time, and if the price of such a sight was his professional dignity, then he didn't mind the cost (too much).

Penelope howled with laughter, "Hotch? Why are you calling from Emily's phone?"

"I had to do it," Emily confessed, holding her hands up in surrender. "I knew that she'd save my number and I knew that she'd give me a great Morgan kind of greeting the next time I called. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist."

Hotch held the phone closer to Emily, so that Garcia could better hear her friend's confession, before putting it back to his ear, "I think we are both the victim of an evil plot."

"Don't worry, sir—I will devise a perfect retribution."

"Of that I have no doubt, Garcia." Hotch grinned again. However his smile disappeared as he returned to the matter at hand, "I know you're already looking into past attacks, but I need you to send us what you can on the organizational structure of Al-Noor. We're looking for mid-to-high level men, early thirties or older, most likely not from the region, who have ties to previous attacks or connections to other organizations."

"All seemingly specific and yet very vague," she pointed out. "Maybe you've got some faces to go with that description? Or a name—first, last, nickname, something? Distinguishing characteristics?"

Hotch's gaze flicked back over to Prentiss, whose expression had become serious again, too. "Working on that now. We're enhancing video footage—as soon as we've got a clear shot of the two we're looking for, we will run it through Interpol's facial recognition software and we'll be able to give you a name."

"But until then—"

"It's a shot in the dark, Garcia, I know."

"I'm not saying I won't try, sir. I'm just saying not to hold your breath."

"Understood." Hotch hung up, handing the phone back to Emily, who was grinning again, like the cat that ate the canary.

"Highly unprofessional, Chief Prentiss," he informed her in a somber tone, though a smile danced at the corners of his eyes.

"It was, Chief Hotchner," she agreed. "And it was worth it."

Spencer Reid felt like he'd begun the first descent into the proverbial rabbit hole—sure, Hotch had a sense of humor, but he rarely let it show during a case. But now, he was smiling a bright, happy smile, and so was Emily (who also could crack the occasional joke on a case, but who'd never been quite this...bubbly). The young doctor glanced over at David Rossi, who was wearing an oddly triumphant smirk. Rossi turned, noticed his quizzical expression, gave a slight flutter of his fingers ( _I'll tell ya later, kid_ ).

The ride back to headquarters had eased some of the awkward tension between Emily and Aaron, thankfully—Dave didn't know why they were acting so weirdly towards each other when they first reunited, but he'd felt it, from almost the instant that they'd arrived. Well, perhaps it wasn't  _that_  big of a mystery—or at least he hoped not. He hoped that the strange shyness was due to the fact that they could no longer hide behind the defense of rank and working relationships and that their previous excuses were gone.

Regardless of why they'd started on such a odd note, the important thing was that they seemed to be back in sync again—the way it used to be, when Emily was still part of the team, but now with something more relaxed, something more playful, and perhaps even a little... _flirty_?

Flirty, yes. Well, as close to being flirty as those two had ever been. Sometimes David wasn't sure if they were both just too timid and overly cautious, or simply deaf, dumb, and blind to all the signals that the other person was sending.

Attraction did that to you—even the world's best profiler could be blinded by emotion, left uncertain of his or her abilities as they scrambled for the truth. When the matter was personal, when it involved your own heart and self-doubt, the waters always got muddier. He'd felt that way with Erin—he would swear on a stack of bibles that when she was just his section chief, he could read her like a bold-print front page headline without a second of hesitation. However, when she became something more, suddenly she became a sphinx, with worlds of indecipherable languages and gestures, a room filled with shadows and smoke, and yet, she hadn't changed at all. The stakes had become higher, his involvement became personal, and suddenly, his ability to analyze was lost. You could tell when someone was attracted to someone else, but when it came to figuring out how a person felt about your own self, you suddenly came up short, thinking  _how could they possibly love me, how could I ever be worthy of such attention?_ Objective became subjective and the forest was lost in the trees.

So Aaron and Emily might still be lost in the forest. Well, Tourguide Rossi just might have to give them a little help.

There was a little ring of a notification on Mika's laptop, and he rolled his chair over to the corner of the conference room table, where he'd set the computer. "Enhancement's done. Let's see what we've got."

He turned the laptop to face the others, who all leaned forward in their seats.

"This is the camera from the eastern entrance," Mika explained. He pointed to a group of four men entering the glass doors, "Here's where the action starts—but the others must have already been inside the mall, at strategic points. The mall is two stories high; there's no way someone could take over the whole place from a single entrance."

"There's no way only eighteen men could take over this whole place at all," Whitting pointed out. By now, they had counted enough bodies and read enough statements to conclude that there were eighteen ANAM members. "And yet they did."

"As far as we know," Ahoo added. Her team mate turned to look at her, and she gave a slight shrug, "There could have been another group that took out the cameras and subdued the local security officers, and then left the scene. A tag-team effort."

"We've seen similar actions taken in other attacks," Addison Cortez agreed. "For the Madrid bombings, one cell made the bomb; another cell delivered it to the destination. It ensured that if one part of the mission was compromised, then the whole plan wasn't lost."

"Let's approach that theory whenever we have some kind of evidence to support it," Emily suggested, turning her attention back to the video. She tapped Mika's shoulder. "Pause it."

He obeyed. Emily leaned closer, "Look, in the top right corner of the screen. That store's not open yet."

She was right—the store's marquee was lit and the interior lights were on, but the metal gate at the store entrance was still down.

Karl Vetter, who'd been quiet throughout most of the day, suddenly spoke up, "That's why they struck so early in the day—the mall was just opening. Less people are there, which means less to control, but still enough to catch attention."

"Also explains why we won't see the others entering the building—at least not through the front doors," David Rossi added. "They were most likely posing as employees."

Spencer nodded in agreement, "If they were employees of various stores, they would have to be there at least an hour before the mall opened. By then, they would be aware of any complications that might arise and could alert the others who were coming in as shoppers. They probably worked at the mall for several weeks, figuring out security details, such as when officers changed shifts, where the surveillance cameras were, the easiest ways to gain access through employee-only sections of the mall—whoever orchestrated this wasn't a novice, not by a long shot."

Rossi suddenly sat back in his seat, a look of disgruntled confusion on his face. "Something's not right."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Hotch asked, after a beat of silence.

"I'm too tired to see it," the older man admitted, giving his face an aggravated scrub with his hands. "But we're missing something. I can feel it."

Emily worried her bottom lip between her teeth, darting her dark eyes back to the laptop. She had to agree—something wasn't adding up, and there wasn't enough known correct factors to show what the incorrect or unknown factor was.

She hadn't ever expected this case to be easy. But god almighty, she had hoped it wouldn't hit a brick wall this soon. She leaned forward slightly, zeroing in on the four figures frozen at the mall's entrance.

_Tell me what I'm missing. Tell me your story, you little lost boys. Tell me who led you away with tales of Never Land._

* * *

_**Quantico, Virginia.** _

"Oh, Baby Girl," Derek Morgan sing-songed as he slowly opened the door to Penelope Garcia's lair. "Since we're having a slow day, I thought we could go out for a nice lunch. Maybe some—"

He stopped mid-sentence, because from the looks of things, his Baby Girl was not having a slow day at all—in fact, she seemed to be having the exact opposite.

"What in the hell?" He moved closer, trying to read some of the words zipping across the computer screens at light-speed.

"We'll have to order in, Hot Stuff," she didn't even look up from her screen. "But I'd love some sushi."

"I don't do raw fish, babydoll." He reminded her, standing over her shoulder as he glanced from one screen to the next, looking for something that he could actually understand. "Now, can you tell me what on earth you're doing? You working on some secret mission that I don't know about?"

"Secret, no. Unknown to you, also kinda no—Emily called from Nairobi; she and the boys need my help. She gave me access to the Interpol database and whoo, boy, is it amazing—like if operating systems were theme parks, this would be Six Flags in the middle of Disney's Enchanted Kingdom, and it's all managed by Willy Wonka, who gives you this special candy that makes sure you never get sick and the park never closes and there's never any lines to wait in and everyone is super-nice and you don't ever get tired or sweaty or sun-burned—"

"I think I get the picture," he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her tumbling words of excitement. He pulled up a chair, leaning in to read the CIA documents on her secondary screen, "So what's the deal? They've traced Al-Noor Al-Mujahedeen back to its origins...what are they looking for?"

"The gang thinks there must have been some kind of dress rehearsal for this attack. I'm going back to see if I can find something...but it's possible that this particular M.O. is from one of the original founding groups."

"Makes sense. If a trick works for a magician in one show, he'll use it in the next."

"Yeah, except this magician has some nasty tricks up his sleeve." She made a face. Another result popped up, and she scanned the text, highlighting the pieces she needed, then tagging it for further analysis by the international task force. "They're using Interpol's facial recognition software to see if anything pops up, at which point I'll start searching even further into the dregs of humanity—"

"Oh, don't even act like you don't  _love_  the chance to help out," he interrupted smoothly, leaning back in his chair, nudging her knee with his own. "I bet you were in here counting ceiling tiles until they called."

She didn't answer, but the flicker of shocked surprise in those big Bambi eyes confirmed that he'd hit the nail on the head. He gave a smug self-satisfied grin, lacing his fingers together behind his head as he simply watched his favorite lady in action.

"So no sushi?" Penelope resumed their earlier line of discussion, her gaze still focused on her primary computer screen as she watched the latest query results scroll in.

"I'll get you sushi, if that's what you really want." He gave a heavy sigh, sounding like the ultimate martyr.

"You are a doll."

"No, I'm a real boy."

"Don't I know it." A wicked grin quirked at the corner of her mouth. He chuckled softly.

She followed a link to one of her query results, her lips moving though no sound came out as she read the report. Suddenly she pumped her fist in the air victoriously, "Score another point for the indomitable Team Penemily!"

"Team what?"

"Penemily. It's a combination of Penelope and Emily. We're a team now. It's a thing." She was adorably straight-faced and matter-of-fact.

"Sounds like a team that I would very much like to be a part of," Derek gave another mischievous grin.

"Right now it's girls-only. But I'll let you know if we need you." She swiveled in her chair, taking a moment to simply bask in the presence of her beloved dark knight. "So, you gonna get me that sushi or will I simply have to start nibbling on you instead?"

"Down, girl," he warned playfully, gently tapping the tip of her nose with his fingertip as he rose to his feet. When he reached the door, he turned around again, his expression much more somber, "I'm serious, Garcia. If you need an extra set of eyes, you call me."

"Always, my love."

He grinned again and headed out. A few seconds later, she heard his voice calling down the hall, "Go, Team Penemily!"

She laughed. Then she reached for the phone. Time for Team Penemily to spring into action.

* * *

Alex Blake was waiting for Derek in the bullpen. When she noticed that he was alone, she held up her hands in confusion, "I thought we were all going out to lunch. Where's Penelope?"

"Busy helping Hotch with the case in Nairobi."

"Oh," Blake stood a little straighter, cocking her head to the side. "Does she need any help?"

Derek couldn't help but grin at the question—it was a slow day in what seemed like an entire month of slow days (after the Replicator, the director became more wary of sending the team into the field), and everyone in the BAU was getting cabin fever.

"I think she's pulling a one-woman show right now," he informed the brunette. "But I am on a high-priority mission to obtain sushi for the lady—wanna come along?"

Alex made a face. "Not really feeling like sushi today. Can we grab some burgers on the way back?"

Derek's grin deepened, "Now you're speaking my language."

She smiled as well, grabbing her things and following him to the elevators.

"I wonder how they're doing." Alex admitted quietly. She didn't have to specify who  _they_  were, or why she was worried—Derek understood, and more importantly, he shared her concern.

"They're all tin soldiers," he replied simply, giving a small shrug. Alex looked at him in confusion, and he elaborated, "No matter what happens, they always survive. Like the fairy tale."

"Except at the end, the tin soldier melts in the fire," she reminded him.

"But the tin heart remains," he pointed out. "It melts, it shifts, it adapts—and it remains."

There was a pregnant pause as Alex Blake contemplated her partner's words. They boarded the elevators in silence, and she took a moment to simply study his profile. A small smile snuck across her lips.

"I never knew you were such a philosopher."

"Deep well and a tall glass of water," he agreed. "That's me."

"And so very, very humble."

He laughed. "I never claimed to be anything but myself."

She smiled in agreement. After another beat of contented silence, she asked, "Do you wish that you'd gone instead?"

"I don't envy what they're going through," he admitted. "But I'd rather be the one going through it, just so I could know that they were safe."

She gave a small hum of understanding. She was pretty sure that he had just given the definition of family—at least the definition of this family.

Family. She had barely been here for a year, and she already considered this team a part of her family (she'd spent years in other departments without ever even truly making friends—what was so special about these people?). It was odd. And wonderful.

Mostly wonderful.

* * *

_**Central Shopping Center. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Jeff Masterson settled onto the curb of the concrete sidewalk outside the southern entrance with a heavy sigh—they'd finally decided to take a break, and he was glad to be out of that clingy white jumpsuit which didn't breathe at all. He'd taken a walk around the parking lot to clear his mind and cool his body, but he still wasn't ready to go back inside. The sun had long since set on Nairobi, and now the place was filled with huge sets of stadium lights with generators that hummed and whirred at an almost-unbearable decibel level (the bombs had wrecked the electrical system, so everything was being run by generators instead). It didn't help that the acoustic nature of the mall itself caused the sounds to echo and reverberate even more loudly, turning the place into a madhouse—he and Roe had been so close to the excavation crew that they'd been forced to wear earplugs.

He looked up at the night sky, to the new moon whose face was still shrouded in shadow.

_Even the heavens turn their face from this place_.

He gave a wry smile at his own melodramatic thoughts.

He heard the door behind him groan in protest as it opened, bits of glass getting caught underneath the metal frame and scraping against the concrete. There were footsteps, light but steady and assured—he knew it was Rowena.

She sat down beside him, elbows easily resting on her knees, "The excavation crew's saying that we'll be able to get into the collapsed section by tomorrow morning."

"Good. Maybe we can get a look at the bodies before they haul them out."

"Wouldn't count on it. That Dr. Arterton runs a tight ship. Between him and Zamir, we won't get an inch of wiggle room."

Jeff sighed in agreement, turning his face back to the heavens. Rowena mimicked his movement, her hazel eyes rising upwards as well.

She spoke again, her voice much softer, filled with nostalgia, "Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune...she winks a feeble eye, she smiles into corner...ah, damn I forget the rest."

"Nice," he replied gently.

"It's Eliot. My favorite."

He shook his head with a wry grin. She noticed.

"What? What's that look for? You think I can't be deep enough to enjoy poetry?"

"No, I just...you always seemed to be a little more rock n' roll."

"Should I be offended or flattered by that?"

"Neither. It's just an opinion."

"You have made neutrality into an art form, Agent Masterson." She gave a slightly irritated roll of her eyes.

"Neutral is good. It's balanced."

"Some things aren't meant to be balanced," she retorted gently.

"Perhaps," he replied, his tone equally soft. She wondered if they were talking about something else now.

"I don't like it here," she admitted. He wondered if she was referring to their physical location or their emotional one.

"Me either."

There was another loud noise as the jackhammer started up again—the excavators must have reached another block of concrete that was too big to lift, so they would have to split it into smaller, more manageable pieces.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Rowena winced, instinctively leaning away from the sound, an action which brought her shoulder against his. Normally this wouldn't have even been noticeable, except that his sleeves were rolled up and she was wearing a spaghetti strap tank—bare skin collided and merged, warm and sticky from hours in unforgiving jumpsuits, and the sensation caused a white-hot moment of shock.

She pulled back quickly, unable to stop herself from muttering, "Sorry."

"No worries," he kept his tone even, nonchalant, as his mind tried not to imagine the feeling of her skin against his in a very different setting.

"I think the others are getting ready to call it a night," she recovered quickly, still wanting to kick herself ( _sorry_ , really, what the hell was she apologizing for?). "But Dr. Arterton said that he'd stay here with us, if we wanted to tackle another section."

"How kind of him." Jeff was certain that the good doctor had become yet another casualty of Rowena Lewis' spell—of course he would give up sleep to spend a few more hours in her presence, even if it was just standing to the side and watching her pick up bits of debris with a pair of tweezers. Roe had that effect on men (and a few women, too)—her partner had seen it played out dozens of times, in various forms and levels. Sometimes it worked to their advantage, got them things that they needed and into places that they normally wouldn't be able to get into on their own. Sometimes it was humorous. Sometimes it was annoying.

Roe heard the flatness in his tone, but she didn't comment. She knew what he was thinking—that she'd batted her eyes and wiggled her hips and gotten someone to dance to her tune—but in truth, Dr. Arterton was just a good person who wanted to give them as much time at the site as possible. After all, the British and the Israelis had been here for hours before them, so they were technically behind the curve. The doctor simply possessed a deep sense of fair play, and was offering them a chance to catch up. Why couldn't Jeff believe that someone would simply want to help her, without any ulterior motive?

She knew why. Her stepfather had called it the glitch ( _you got something in you that rewires people's brains...you make 'em glitch, make 'em think and do things they thought they'd never do—something behind your eyes like an electric short-circuit_ ). Of course, he was just looking for an excuse—it couldn't be his fault, so it had to be hers. Maybe there had been some truth behind the words, though, because Rowena had soon learned that she could incite similar responses from others as well. Maybe it was her fault. Maybe she was just some malfunctioning livewire, jumping around, zapping unsuspecting people, disrupting lives, glitching internal systems. Maybe that's all people could see, when they looked at her—the glitch.

The night air suddenly felt colder. She rose to her feet, arms instinctively wrapping around herself as she tried to rub away the goosebumps on her arms.

"So what's the plan?" She looked down at her partner. "We staying or going?"

"I want to be in that quadrant as soon as they say it's safe," Jeff rose to his feet. "I say let's head to the hotel and get some sleep, so we can be here bright and early tomorrow morning."

"I second that motion," she gave a curt nod, turning on her heel and heading back into the shopping center.

She grabbed her overshirt from the forensic supply table, quickly pulling it over her head as she moved towards the northern entrance, where the evidence collected for the day was being loaded into vans, to be taken back to the CID labs.

Dr. Arterton spotted her and met her halfway—he had to yell to be heard over the jackhammer, "So, what have you decided?"

"We're going," she replied, raising her voice as well. He nodded, giving another smile as he gestured that he needed to return to overseeing the van loading. She waved him on and went to grab their pelican cases full of tools.

Jeff was already at their cases, grabbing the larger one and handing the smaller to her. He avoided making eye contact, and she knew that he knew he'd somehow upset her. They'd danced this dance before—if it were a slight, like this one, it would simply be ignored and smoothed over, but if it were something deeper, he would quietly apologize, she would quietly forgive him, and they'd keep going.

She didn't blame him for thinking that Dr. Arterton was acting out of impure intentions—after all, she flirted with just about every man that she met ( _a defensive tactic, hit them before they hit me, find control in the situation, be ahead of the game_ ), so why should he assume that she would refrain from doing so with that one? She wasn't even really upset. It was her lot in life, she'd accepted that a long time ago. If she felt any emotion about the whole thing, it was sadness.

Roe moved ahead of her partner, slipping through the maze of people and tables to the northern entrance. Jeff followed, quietly taking in the set of her shoulders and the speed of her gait—normally, she moved quickly, smoothly, like a shark at the bottom of the ocean, but when she was tired or upset, she was slower, more disjointed. Right now, she was the latter. He wondered if it was from jetlag or from what he'd said earlier.

The problem was that he wasn't even sure how he'd upset her. He had an inkling—she hadn't changed until after his comment on Arterton's kindness (and he knew that she'd picked up on his sarcasm, that she'd inferred what his tone had implied). Usually, Roe didn't even acknowledge his little asides like that, or if she did, she merely smiled and winked and went on her merry way.

Aside from the van currently being filled with large plastic tubs of evidence, there were two more parked in the north lot, doors open and ready to take them to their hotel. Rowena headed to the closest crew van, opening the back and setting her pelican case on the floor. She stepped aside so that Jeff could load his as well.

There was a beat of silence as Rowena watched the rest of the team load the evidence van and Jeff watched her.

"Y'okay?" He finally asked, brows knitting into an expression of tender concern.

"Peachy keen," she looked back at him, flashing her brightest smile (it didn't reach her eyes, and he noticed).

He turned around, surveying the tattered landscape. The night wind blew a piece of paper across the parking lot, tumbling and twirling until it wrapped around his ankle. He stooped to pick it up, his heart stopping when he saw the crooked childish handwriting—it wasn't in English, but he could tell that it was one of the condolence letters left at the edge of the crime scene, with all the other cards and flowers and stuffed animals and candles.

"You know, no matter how long I do this job, I'll never really get used to things like this," he admitted quietly, taking a deep breath. "Never ceases to amaze me, how some people can have such evil in their hearts."

"We all have evil in our hearts," she informed him, her face set in a blank expression as her arms crossed over her chest. "It's just that some people's evil is more restless than others."

He gave a sad smile, his large thumbs smoothing over the delicate weathered paper, "I suppose you're right."

He walked towards the police cordon, to return the letter to its rightful place, and she watched him go, the good soldier in the dark night—her heart broke for him, for this Atlas whose soul was much too pure for the task that he'd been given, for the little bit of hope and innocence that had died within him today. Her entire being hollowed out, aching for nothing more than to rush after him, to take him in her arms, to hold his head over her heart so that he could remember what was good and right and true in the world, to kiss his temple and whisper soothing words in his ear until he was whole again.

But she didn't. She merely watched him go, like she had so many times before, heart in her throat and the wind at her back.

* * *

_"There is darkness inside all of us, though mine is more dangerous than most. Still, we all have it—that part of our soul that is irreparably damaged by the very trials and tribulations of life. We are what we are because of it, or perhaps in spite of it. Some use it as a shield to hide behind, others as an excuse to do unconscionable things. But, truly, the darkness is simply a piece of the whole, neither good nor evil unless you make it so."_   
_~Jenna Maclaine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines of poetry quoted by Rowena are from T.S. Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
> 
> If I made any mistakes in reference to the process of salat, or the differences between various branches of Islam, please forgive me—it's been a long time since I studied all of this, and brushing up wasn't easy, ha! I hope I've painted a clear enough picture, without bogging you down in minutia. I will put a slight disclaimer: since Ahoo is traveling, her form of worship is slightly different from what a normal prayer would be—the main instance being ablution and the processes necessary to begin prayer—and while researching the process necessary to make a valid tayammum, I found several different answers. I chose the solution that seemed the easiest to describe and the best fit for the story itself.
> 
> For the Christian-based readers among us, think of the motions of salat much like the motions of mass (stand, pray, recite, kneel, pray, rise, repeat, etc), though the frequency and structure are much more closely related to Jewish prayer practices (thrice daily, with recitation of certain passages and a conscious determination/acknowledgement to turn one's thoughts to worship). My hope and aim is to highlight the similarities between these three (often in conflict) religions, and to point out that underneath it all, perhaps we are not so different—we are all people of the book, as the Muslims would say.
> 
> I'll relinquish the field of theodicy and theology, and step down from my soapbox now.
> 
> And, yes, it's totally OK if when you read "bismillah", your brain went straight into Bohemian Rhapsody.


	6. Remembrance

_"Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching the crowds for your face—I know it's an impossibility, but I cannot help myself."_

_~Nicholas Sparks._

* * *

_**CID Headquarters. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

The only sound in the room was the occasional turn of the page as the task force continued wading through interview transcripts, or the occasional tap on the keyboard as Mika Kimathi, George Whitting, and Karl Vetter watched and rewatched footage from the shopping center's thirty-two security cameras on their respective laptops. The four deceased victims' remains had been identified, and the medical examiner's office had pieced together sixteen additional bodies, leaving the final count of ANAM members to eighteen (though there were no leads as to their identities), when one included the two bodies that had yet to be recovered from the collapsed eastern section of the shopping center—this head count seemed consistent with everything that Mika, George, and Karl could find on the footage.

Emily's phone rang, and after a quick glance at the caller ID, she answered, "What've ya got for me, Garcia?"

"A heart full of love, my love." Judging by her friend's jovial tone, that wasn't all. "And some similar cases coming your way—I'm sending them back to Agent Kimathi, since he's the one who sent everything to me in the first place."

"That's fine."

"I've highlighted the important sections. As far as Hotch's two mystery men—that description matches about 90% of ANAM's upper level organization."

"We're still going through the footage, trying to find clean shots to send back to Interpol for facial recognition." Emily glanced over at Mika, who was busy watching footage—so far, the two oldest men hadn't appeared in any of the videos. "I'm afraid it's gonna be awhile."

"I'm here, whenever you need me."

"Thanks, Penelope."

"Oh, that reminds me—we're a thing now."

"A thing?"

"We're Penemily."

Emily burst into laughter. "Oh, that's so perfect."

"I thought so, too." There was a grin in Penelope's voice, and Emily could imagine her friend's bright and happy expression. "Since I've got some time to kill until you get some facial matches for me, I think I'm gonna start bedazzling team shirts."

"Oh, please do."

A sound from Mika's laptop grabbed Emily's attention, "Looks like we've got the files you sent. I'll talk to you soon."

"Be safe."

"I will," Emily promised before hanging up.

Addison and Spencer were already on their feet, moving to stand over Mika's shoulder as he opened the reports on his laptop.

Mika's dark brown eyes scanned the highlighted sections as he relayed the details to the rest of the team, "Alright, we've got an incident in 1997—two bombers at a soccer game. In 1999, we've got three guys taking a bus full of passengers hostage, forcing the driver to drive outside of the city of Haliza—that's the capitol of East Africa, where most of these attacks took place—where the hostages were held for six days."

"Bombs?" Whitting asked.

"No bombs." Mika Kimathi shook his head, scrolling down the list of results. "Wait, here's one that she specifically tagged—2002, a little town on the Somali-East African border...looks like a local market was taken over...the stand-off between police and the hostage-takers lasted less than 24 hours. They were taken out by snipers, but they were wearing IEDs."

"They learned," David pointed out. "The market would have been open-air, or at least with large open windows and entrances, easier for snipers to get to them—malls generally don't have windows, except at the entrances."

Hotch gave a nod of agreement, "Let's take a closer look at that incident—it seems like the most probable lead."

Mika followed the link, giving a low whistle of appreciation for all the information that popped up—newspaper clippings, police incident reports, even footage from local news stations, "Your girl's got skills."

"She most certainly does," Rossi agreed, even though from his current vantage point across the table, he had no idea what had impressed Agent Kimathi so much. Still, he knew that statement to be pure truth.

"No one claimed responsibility for the attack," Mika informed them.

"Al-Noor would have been in its infancy," George Whitting pointed out. "They wouldn't want to jeopardize their legitimacy by admitting to a failed coup."

"Social media wasn't as prevalent twelve years ago, either," Emily added. "ANAM's main source of communication is their Twitter feed."

Rossi gave an incredulous huff—just another reason to hate the new age of technology. Terrorists tweeting, where would it all end?

He felt another wave of irritation simmering beneath his skin—he still knew that they were missing something, and he hated knowing there was still an unknown factor out there.

A movement outside the conference room door grabbed his attention, and he turned to see Yonah Zamir entering the room.

"What have I missed?" She asked, breezily taking an empty chair and sitting down at the table with an expectant air.

"Has everyone left the site for the day?" Hotch turned to her, his expression filled with light confusion.

"Yes. The others went back to the hotel for rest. It has been a long day."

"But you're here." Hotch pointed out.

The corner of her mouth twisted into a wry grin, "I do not need rest."

She looked around, motioning to all the files stacked on the table, "Besides, it looks as if you could use an extra pair of eyes. How can I help?"

Mika Kimathi and George Whitting tag-teamed getting her up to speed, and Hotch was impressed with how Major Zamir simply nodded, taking in all the information without batting an eye—she didn't ask questions, and the clear calmness in her expression told him that she didn't need to (she must have possessed a strong head for detail and event construction, to be able to take in so many facts so effortlessly).

After the mini-debriefing was finished, she merely leaned forward, forearms resting on the tabletop as her fingers steepled (a body language sign of power and self-control, Reid noted—something she seemed to wear well). Her brown eyes flicked from the timeline on the dry-erase board, to the corkboards filled with photos and schematics.

"The store that was still closed, on the video," Zamir motioned to the computer screen. "Was it the only one not open yet?"

"I—um, I'm not sure," Mika admitted.

"You should find out," she suggested. "If we are looking for ANAM members who were posing as employees, we need to see where the first anomalies took place—that is the correct word, yes? Anomalies?"

"It is," David Rossi nodded. She was right—fresh eyes certainly were a help. He continued her line of thought, "If this is the only store that still isn't open, then we need to take a good look at the staff—they were probably ANAM members, already busy taking out security guards and trying to disable the cameras."

Zamir switched gears, leaning back slightly in her chair, "The morgue says that there are two bodies still missing."

Addison Cortez nodded, "We are assuming they are the final two ANAM members—we've identified the four deceased hostages, and we're still matching the remaining bodies to each of the hostage-takers."

"Matching them to what?" Yonah seemed confused.

"Matching the remains to the faces in the video," George Whitting supplied, holding up an autopsy photo of a badly charred body. "It isn't as easy as it sounds."

Hotch watched Zamir's reaction again—she didn't even bat an eye at the photo (and why should she, after so many years of witnessing war firsthand in her own country?).

"So we have...oh, I am not good with higher numbers in English—shmona'asar—the number of mujahedeen—"

"Eighteen," David offered, and she nodded.

"Yes. Eighteen, thank you," she gave a slight smile. She motioned back to the corkboard, "We know there were eighteen members now. We see four coming into the building on camera, and they do not have weapons or explosives. Yet we know that in the end, all of them had these things. Even the ones killed by police bullets were still wearing explosives. Who brought them in?"

"My guess is this man," Karl Vetter spoke up, turning his laptop so that the others could see the screen. He'd paused the video—a shadowy image of a man entering the back hallway reserved for mall employees, with a large black duffel bag over his shoulder. "The bag is too small to carry all of the weapons and explosives, but he's the first person I've seen on the video with such a large bag—surely there are more."

Yonah nodded in agreement. Then she looked around the table, "So, what can I do?"

David Rossi pushed a stack of witness reports across the table, "Welcome to the party."

* * *

Emily had been biting her nails again. Aaron supposed that he shouldn't notice that, but he had—it was getting late, his shoulder was aching, the reading was tedious, and his mind and eyes had begun to wander. And to be completely honest, the woman sitting next to him was much more fascinating than the papers in front of him.

He didn't turn and stare at her directly, but rather stretched all of his mental muscles by taking in her nuances in different ways. He stilled himself, so that he could better sense her breathing (easy, quiet, slow, she was relaxed, lost in the zone of work). He listened to the slight shifts she made as she turned the page, crossed her legs under the table, as she gave a light, almost imperceptible sigh (she was getting tired, too, bored with the mundane-yet-crucial task...how had she ever survived her job at Interpol, which couldn't be much different than this?). From the corner of his eye, he took in the lines of her posture, reading her body language (relaxed, open, bored, oblivious).

Interpol had changed her. Granted, during their last two years together, the Doyle case had turned her into a nervous, closed-off wreck, but even before that, she hadn't seemed this...transparent. She moved differently, too—less hesitation (except where he was concerned, and that was his fault, his own stupidity), less nervousness, with a smooth sense of assurance and belonging. She wore authority well.

_She wears everything well_. He shocked himself with his own thought.  _Aaron, what the hell is wrong with you? She's still your..._

_Your what? Your coworker, your team member, your subordinate? She's none of those things now—at least not beyond the scope of this case._

What a wonderfully frightening thought. It didn't have to mean anything...but it did.

He gave a curt shake of his head, refocusing his attention on the witness report. He had a job to do—they both did. He was tired and it was late and his internal filter wasn't working as it should. He missed Beth and he felt displaced in a strange country—Emily was comforting and familiar (yet not, not anymore, and that was an odd juxtaposition that he couldn't and didn't want to explain), and she was happy and light, and people were always attracted to that sort of thing.

Attracted. So he was admitting (even if only to himself) that he was attracted to her.

He took a moment to consider that internal statement. Well, of course he was attracted to her. She was a pretty woman—no, he corrected himself, she was  _beautiful_  (something deeper, something beyond physical looks, something that spoke to her strength and her sense of determination and her laugh and her prevailing hopefulness and her snark and her fire and her wit and her  _Emilyness_ ). She was a beautiful woman, possessing so many qualities that Aaron admired and tried to possess within himself (hope, determination, mental fortitude, moral certainty), as well as a good sense of humor and a sense of balance that so few people ever really achieved between work and personal life.

And here he was, thinking about things that would disturb that balance. He'd caused enough havoc in Emily Prentiss' life—why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

"You alright?" Emily's quiet voice gently interrupted his thoughts. She must have noticed that he was still, must have noticed that he hadn't turned the page in several minutes (had she been profiling him, too?).

"Yeah, just...tired." He admitted softly. She gave a small hum of understanding, shifting closer to him, trying to keep their conversation between the two of them (though everyone else was so engrossed in their respective tasks that it didn't seem like an issue).

"All of this will still be here tomorrow," she reminded him. "You guys must be exhausted. Go back to the hotel, get some sleep—tackle this thing with fresh eyes in the morning."

Hotch nodded at her suggestion, quietly retorting, "Just an hour or two more. We're almost done with the reports, and I'd rather have them out of the way so that we can focus on building the profile tomorrow."

She nodded as well, shifting away again. He glanced over at her again, smiling at the way she exhaled as she settled back into her chair with her report—her old tell, whenever she was tired or frustrated or overwhelmed in any form. Some things never changed.

Across the table, David Rossi sampled the cup of steaming coffee that Ahoo Shir-Del had graciously brought him (she'd disappeared for a long time, just before sunset, for prayers, but when she'd returned, she had been clear and focused, perhaps more so than the others).

"This is abysmal," David Rossi declared, setting the coffee cup back onto the table.

Yonah Zamir gave a wry smile, "It is police-station coffee, what do you expect? A perfectly made espresso?"

He had to grin at the last part—she had his number and tagged him accordingly. In a way, she reminded him of Erin—not just in the little barbs, but in her work ethic (because after spending the entire day at the mall, she had sent her team back to the hotel to rest, but she had returned to CID, to go over files and help with the profile).

"It'll do for now," Ahoo informed him, taking her seat next to him.

With an amused smile, Yonah looked at the three of them lined up at the table—the Israeli Jew, the Italian Christian, and the Persian Muslim, "We look like the beginning of a joke."

David took a beat to glance at the women seated on either side of him. Then he grinned as well. "One of those walks-into-a-bar ones?"

"Yes," Yonah gave a curt nod of approval. Ahoo smiled as well.

"Life's funny, innit?" Ahoo took a sip of her coffee, then made a face (Agent Rossi was right—it was abysmal).

"Sometimes," Yonah agreed. Her dark eyes shifted back to the photos on the corkboards (and she didn't have to add  _and sometimes it isn't_ , because they understood).

"We're still missing something," David became sober-faced again, his brow crinkling in aggravation.

"How so?" Yonah asked.

"It doesn't add up," he sighed, eyes narrowing as he took in all the information on the boards. "The two older fellas—the ones we've pegged as being the ring-leaders—they just don't fit with the rest of the M.O."

Major Zamir felt the first tremor in her gut—her old fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in, those warrior instincts that had kept her alive through many a fire storm.

There was no definite proof. No need to set the investigation down that path yet—especially when she could still be wrong, when her revelation could actually harm or hinder the case.

David Rossi stood, giving another frustrated sigh. He moved down the table, tapping Spencer Reid's shoulder, "C'mon. I need a walk and a decent cup of coffee."

"I don't really drink coffee."

"You walk, don't you?"

Spencer couldn't refute that.

"I saw a place, about a block from here," Rossi motioned down the unseen street. "Looked like it was geared specifically towards the local PD, so it should be open late."

With a slight shrug, Spencer rose to his feet and followed his team member out the door.

"If he doesn't come back, we'll know it was because of the cigars," Hotch commented dryly, not even looking up from his report.

"Have to prove it first," Rossi called over his shoulder.

"Cigars?" Mika sat up, face skewed in confusion. "What cigars?"

Emily just laughed.

* * *

The night air was still warm, though a light breeze ruffled through the city's maze of streets and buildings. Spencer took a moment to simply look around, taking in the sights and sounds of Nairobi at night (funny, how cities seemed just as unique as human beings, each with its own personality and scents and sounds and energy).

"So," David tucked his hands into his pockets. "Do you wanna tell me what happened earlier, when we went back into the conference room? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Spencer fought back a smile—of course, that's why Rossi had chosen him for the coffee run. He should've known.

"I guess I had, in a way," Spencer squinted at the confession, his hands slipping into his pockets as they stood side-by-side at the crosswalk, body language and posture mimicking each other's. "Agent Cortez...she did something, something that reminded me of Maeve—it was just a little thing, just the way she moved her wrist, and suddenly, I'm—I don't know. It reminded me of all the things I won't get to see again. All the things that are just in my head."

Rossi made a small hum of understanding. The light signaled that they could cross, and there was a thoughtful silence as they navigated the street.

"Zamir reminds me of Erin," David admitted quietly.

Spencer turned to look at him, "Really?"

"Not physically," the older man corrected. "Just...her personality. And not completely, just little parts. It happens. People remind you of other people. Sometimes the person they remind you of is the one you lost."

Spencer nodded (obviously, he knew this). They moved around another group of people, and he added, "I felt—I don't know, I was sad, I was angry, I was...I wasn't prepared. Normally, when I'm reminded of Maeve, I can switch it off. But when it's someone's actions—I can't turn that off, and that scares me."

"You can't control it—of course it's scary," David said easily, and his simple validation gave Spencer hope.

"That's why I was outside, when you guys came back—I felt like I had to get away," the younger man admitted. His expression skewed in confusion as he continued, "But the weird thing is that when we came back upstairs, she didn't remind me of Maeve anymore. And all night I've been...I've been watching her, trying to see if she does it again, if she moves like Maeve again and—and she doesn't. And I don't know whether I'm relieved or saddened by that."

David simply nodded in understanding as they entered the coffee shop. Their conversation went on temporary hold as he ordered two coffees (one for himself, one for Agent Shir-Del, who'd been kind enough to bring him a cup). When they were back on the street again, David resumed, "You know, Erin had a toothbrush at my house, for when she stayed over. It's still sitting by the bathroom sink. I can't bring myself to throw it away—stupidest thing, just some damn little piece of plastic, and yet, I can't do anything about it. And last week, I go to the grocery store and see a pineapple—a freaking piece of  _fruit_ , Reid—and all I can think about is her, because she loved pineapples. Woman could eat a whole pineapple every day, on anything. And here I am, standing in the middle of the produce aisle, getting teary-eyed over a piece of prickly fruit."

Even now, Spencer could hear the tears underneath Rossi's amused tone. They stopped at the crosswalk again, and the older man gave a heavy sigh, "Grief's a weird thing, kid. You never know how it's gonna hit, or when it's gonna spring up."

"So, what do you do?" Spencer asked, voice filled with trepidation (because he knew the answer, long before Rossi gave it).

"You survive." Rossi answered simply. "You push through, you do whatever you have to, and you survive."

"But how?"

He gave a slight shrug. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he admitted, "I bought the pineapple. I hate 'em, but I bought one anyways. And it's sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting, like she's just gonna waltz in and start chopping it up, like she would on any other day. Maybe that makes me crazy. But it made me feel better, and maybe that's more important than feeling sane."

Spencer contemplated his friend's words as they entered the CID again. Once they boarded the elevator, he quietly confessed, "All my life, I've been terrified of going insane. And after everything—my mom, Tobias Hankel, the painkillers, everything else this job has thrown at me—it just seems so...unfair, that I've stayed sane through all of that, just to lose it over the way someone moves their wrist."

"You haven't lost anything," David reminded him. "And all insanity isn't bad."

"You didn't have to watch your mother go insane, time and again," the younger man retorted gently, looking down at his feet.

David couldn't refute that statement—still, he wasn't going to let Spencer win (not this argument, not with so much at stake, not with this young man's sense of self and balance on the line). So he decided to speak the doctor's language, "The word  _insane_  sometimes refers to something extreme or absurd, not just mental health, correct?"

"Correct," Spencer replied slowly, not sure where this was going.

"So...illogical, right?"

"Technically, yes."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" David turned to look at him, dark eyes zeroing in on Spencer's.

"Well, sometimes you can get a little—"

"No, as a whole, do you think I'm certifiably insane?"

"Of course not."

"But would you also agree that the idea of me being with Chief Strauss is absurd?"

Spencer stopped for a moment—he suddenly understood what Rossi was getting at. Still, he followed along, "A little, at least at first. But then..."

"But then what? It just made sense, right?"

"Kinda."

The elevator doors opened at their destination, but Rossi ignored it. The doors closed again and they kept riding the elevator.

"And you would admit that crying over a freaking pineapple is a little bit illogical, no?"

"Well, given the circumstances—"

" _Exactly_ ," Rossi punctuated the word with a triumphant point of his finger. "Given the circumstances, Doctor, even what seems illogical or absurd isn't necessarily insane—and if it is, then it isn't necessarily a bad thing. Grief isn't logical, but then again, neither is love."

Spencer was thoughtful. David smiled, knowing he'd won (but it wasn't about winning or being right, it was about bringing his friend back to safety, back to some sense of surety).

"It's OK to be reminded of Maeve," his tone became gentle again as he tapped the button for the correct floor. "Anger is normal, sadness is normal, everything is normal because when it comes to grief, nothing is normal."

"That actually makes sense," Spencer admitted, his brow wrinkling in slight befuddlement (sometimes Rossi was like the caterpillar from Wonderland—amidst the riddles and juxtaposed phrases, utter clarity abounded, in the strangest of ways).

"Trust me, I learned it the hard way," Rossi confided quietly.

"I suppose so." The younger man's voice was etched with sorrow and compassion. Then, with a sad smile, he confessed, "I have to admit, at the beginning of this trip, I thought I would finally get the chance to help you deal with losing Strauss—you know, after all the things you've done for me."

"You did," Rossi assured him. "I haven't told anyone else about the pineapple. I thought it would make me sound crazy—you made me realize that survival isn't always logical, but it isn't a bad thing, either."

The elevator doors opened again, and they were back on the Anti-Terrorism Unit floor. Rossi got out, resuming his usual brusque air of seriousness. With a deepening smile, Spencer followed him.

Perhaps his first prediction had been right—he would be able to help his friend heal. He just hadn't realized that in the midst of helping, he'd heal himself as well.

He doubled his pace, catching up with the older man.

"By the way," Rossi didn't even glance at him as they made their way down the hall. "I'm still going to push you out of the escape hatch as soon as we leave Nairobi."

* * *

_"You will lose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp."  
~Anne Lamott._


	7. The Little Foxes

_"The world may see my skin, but just below_   
_Simmers what I think but never show…_   
_When you close your eyes, do you relive_   
_Each averted glance, aborted kiss?"_   
_~Emilie Autumn, Visions._

* * *

_**March 2011. Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Bethesda, Maryland.** _

If pain were a color, Emily Prentiss would say that hers was currently purple. Deep, almost-black, with hints of the searing red underneath, which was slowly muting into a dull, steady throbbing. She felt like she'd been kicked in the chest by someone wearing a steel-toed boot. Breathing hurt. It felt like her throat was on fire, like her lungs were made of jello and an elephant was sitting on top of her.

She tried to swallow. A razor-sharp pain slid all the way down her throat. She grimaced, closing her eyes even tighter as she tried to regain control of her mind, whose primal urge wanted only to focus on the stinging and aching.

_Answer the questions, Emily. Who, what, when, where, how, and why._

_Who. I am SSA Emily Prentiss._

_What. I don't know._

_When. Not sure on that one, either. One for three. Not the best average so far._

_Where_. She listened to the sounds around her, felt the scratchy sheets beneath her fingertips, took in the smells of antiseptics.  _A hospital. I'm in a hospital._

_How_. Ah, now she was remembering.  _Doyle_.

That explained the what, too. Though she was still uncertain of when.

She opened her eyes, searching the room for some sign. On the opposite wall, a dry-erase board contained the message:  _Today is March 10, 2011. Your nurses are Amanda and Joyce._

So...three days? Four?

_I am Emily Prentiss. Today is March 10. I have survived a stake to the chest, from Ian Doyle. I am alone in a hospital room._

Alone. Why was she alone?

She slowly looked around the room. It was bare—no flowers, no cards, no anxious and expectant faces.

It wasn't like her team at all. What had happened? How long had she been out? Had Doyle gotten them all?

Oh, gods above, had he killed her family?

The thought sent a jolt of white-hot panic through her entire body, and Emily sat up—much too quickly, an action that sent a stab of pain shooting into her lungs again. She gasped, another action that tore at her throat, bringing more agony. Hot tears welled up in her eyes—partially due to the pain, but mostly due to the feeling of sheer helplessness that overwhelmed every fiber of her being.

The soft sound of footsteps made Emily turn slightly (but not too quickly—she'd learned that the hard way).

A nurse appeared in the doorway with a gentle smile, "You're awake. Do you know where you are?"

Emily nodded, still too afraid to speak (if simply gasping had hurt her throat like that, how awful would talking be?).

"Good," the nurse smiled again, moving forward to press the button on Emily's bed, raising the back so that she could remain in a supported sitting position. "You've been through a lot the last few days. We're gonna need you to take it easy for awhile, OK, Emily?"

She nodded again, her mind still swirling with one single, pulsing question:  _where is my team?_

"I'll go get you some water. Your throat's going to be a little sore—"

_A little? It feels like I swallowed a Brillo pad_.

"—that's from the tube. The stake hit pretty low in your abdomen, but it damaged your diaphragm and that affected your lungs, so we had to help you breathe for awhile. But obviously, you're doing much better now." Another smile. "I'll be back in just a moment."

The tears came back, but it hurt too much to cry. She gingerly sank back against the pillows, turning her face to the window.

Maybe they were waiting in the lobby, or back at the office, waiting on a phone call from the hospital. Maybe she was in a restricted area (it didn't look like ICU, but who knew?), where flowers weren't allowed due to potential allergies. Maybe the doctors had asked them to stay away, until she was awake.

It didn't make sense. They would never abandon her like this.

Unless...

No. They were still alive. They had to be. She'd never forgive herself if they were all gone, because of her.

She found herself doing something that she hadn't done in a very long time. She closed her eyes and prayed to a god that she no longer believed in.

_Please. I know I don't have the right to ask for anything, and if you're real, I'm certain that I'm not your favorite person—but, oh, please, don't punish them for what I've done. Let them be safe. Please._

* * *

Later that afternoon, JJ stopped by, accompanied by Strauss and Hotch.

"Emily," Strauss stepped forward, hands clasped in front of her as she quietly explained the situation. "There's something we need to tell you. We...we are the only ones who know that you're still alive."

"I don't understand," Emily returned flatly, scanning the three somber faces at the end of her bed. She'd spent the morning drinking water and sucking on lozenges, and her throat wasn't nearly as painful (though this matter was too important to not ask questions, regardless of the pain).

Strauss sent a sideways glance to Hotch, and there was a beat of silent communication. Then Strauss continued, with an unsteady breath, "When you were rushed into the operating room, you were barely hanging on to life. We decided—"

"I decided," Hotch corrected, gently touching Strauss' elbow to signal that he would finish the statement (and she looked positively relieved at that). "You were in critical condition; Ian Doyle was—and still is—on the loose. I couldn't risk having him come after you again. He's consumed with revenge, Prentiss, you know that he won't stop until you're dead."

"This is the only way that we can save you," Strauss added, hands nervously clutching together again. Every nuance of her body language screeched to Emily that she wanted to be understood, that she wanted Emily to see that they were protecting her, not punishing her. Still, it didn't stop the feeling of abandonment rising in Emily's chest.

"Our first priority is to get you well," JJ gave a sorrowful smile, reaching forward to gently place a reassuring hand on Emily's ankle. "Once you're able to travel, we'll take you anywhere you want to go."

"Preferably outside the United States," Strauss spoke up again. "If Doyle suspects anything, the first place he'll look is US Witness Protection."

Emily nodded in agreement, her mind still spinning. Everyone was so calm, so detached—how could this possibly be happening?

She looked up at Hotch. That's when she noticed the suit and tie—all black, and much more formal than his usual office attire.

Strauss was in a black dress, with heels too impractical for the Bureau. JJ was in all black as well.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Her heart sunk, because she knew the answer before she even asked the question.

JJ bit her lip. Strauss paled and looked at the floor. Hotch took a deep breath.

"Your funeral was this morning," he informed her, his tone lined with a gentleness that she hadn't heard in a very long time.

So it was already decided. There was no going back, no chance for her to have her say. She was already dead and buried.

Her stomach turned to lead. If she was dead, how could she come back?

Hotch seemed to read her mind, because he quietly assured her, "The second that Ian Doyle is back in custody and we are certain that he has no outside connections that can reach out and hurt you, we will bring you back."

She nodded again, unable to stop the tears that welled up in her eyes (it was ridiculous, how many times she'd cried today— _if this is life after death, I think I'll pass_ ). These people didn't understand Doyle, not like she did. Hotch's promise was easier said than done—it could be decades before she could come back, or they may never catch him at all.

"We are going to catch him, Agent Prentiss," Strauss reached out, as if to comfort her, then pulled back (not even death could change the awkwardness between them, Emily thought wryly). She clasped her hands together again, looked down as she cleared her throat, "I promised—I promised your mother that I would. And we will."

"My mother thinks I'm dead?" Emily was chagrined to admit that she hadn't even thought about her mother.

Again, another silent exchange between Strauss and Hotch. Obviously a disagreement.

"I told her the truth," Strauss admitted. "We had previously—in the interest of your security, we thought it would be best to keep it to as few people as possible, but...I couldn't. She knows."

"How much does she know?"

"Enough to ease her mind," Aaron Hotchner answered softly. "But not enough to put her in danger."

Emily nodded, turning her face to the window again. She gave a heavy sigh, "Well, I guess that's it, then. You've tied up all the loose ends."

The finality in her words broke Aaron's heart. Honestly, every second of this visit had been gut-wrenching—seeing the dark circles under Emily's eyes, the lips still slightly blue from lack of oxygen, the bruised wrists, the bandage on her upper chest, under which he knew was her torn flesh, mutilated by Doyle's hand. She winced every time that she moved (and he empathized, he remembered how it felt when Foyet had stabbed him, the steady throbbing pain that made every movement a labor). Emily had been the one to save him then, the one who cared enough to go looking for him, to alert the others, to stand vigil over his bed until he regained consciousness. Now he was trying to save her—yet somehow, he felt as if she were adrift at sea and he was cutting her life line, rather than using it to pull her back to safety.

Despite his desire to save her (and to make her see that he was trying to save her, not harm her further), he still had to respect her, too—every nuance of her body language screamed that she wanted to be left alone, and he got the message loud and clear. There was nothing left to do, except to honor her unspoken request. It was the only way that he could show her that he cared—he cared enough to leave her alone when she asked (even when she asked without words, even when doing so caused him more pain).

"Just focus on getting better," he gently admonished. She still didn't turn to look at him, didn't acknowledge his words in any way. He turned to go, motioning for the two blondes to follow him. "We'll let you rest, Agent Prentiss."

"I'm not an agent anymore," Emily mournfully informed him. She kept her face turned away. "I'm just Emily now."

If any part of his heart wasn't already broken, it absolutely shattered in that instant. He turned back around, seeing the same pain in Erin and JJ's eyes.

"Get some rest, Emily," he said softly. Then he turned and left.

Erin Strauss gave a heavy sigh as she followed him down the depressingly neutral-colored hall. Gods, she needed a drink.

"She's not taking it well," Erin knew that she was pointing out the obvious, but it was something to start the conversation, and that was all the mattered. Currently, she and Aaron had been playing a game of freeze-out, ever since she'd gone against the plan and informed Elizabeth Prentiss that her daughter was, in fact, still alive.

_'That wasn't your call, Erin,' he'd been livid, in the quietly dangerous way that she'd never seen before._

_'She wanted to see the body—she wanted to see her daughter one last time. How could I deny her that?'_

Erin Strauss might not have been the world's greatest mother, but she understood a mother's heart—and perhaps she understood Elizabeth Prentiss' heart better than most (after all, they were the same, they'd both sacrificed their children's wellbeing on the altar of public service, and they'd paid for it in spades of guilt and self-loathing). She couldn't put Elizabeth Prentiss through the absolute hell of thinking that her only child was murdered, even if it was in the best interest of the Bureau. It was a moral line that she'd never even known she possessed, and yet, she couldn't cross it. She had tried, but when the Ambassador had begun crying, begging to see her child, Erin had fallen to pieces and admitted the truth (because she could very easily imagine losing one of her own children, and losing the chance to mend the rift that her dedication to career and country had caused between her and her lights, as she called them—they were the best and brightest thing she'd ever done, and the thought of being forever separated from them, left with nothing but regrets, was too earth-shattering to comprehend). Still, she had failed, yet again—a fact of which she did not like being reminded, especially by Aaron Hotchner.

_'It's too late now,' she had shot back. And like the good solider that he was, he had accepted it._

_Of course, his acceptance hadn't stopped him from being positively petulant._

"What did you expect?" Aaron Hotchner asked flatly. "We've turned her life upside down, with no guarantees that it will ever be put right again."

"I'm not saying that I don't understand where she's coming from," she retorted, her tone taking a harsher edge. "I'm just saying that I am concerned for her. I am expressing a genuine human emotion, Agent Hotchner—I know that's hard to reconcile with your mental image of me, but please do  _try_  to realize that I can be concerned for the welfare of my agents."

He stopped, turning to look at her. JJ, who was several paces behind them, stopped as well, on-alert and suddenly wary of whatever new dispute was brewing between her two former bosses.

Erin's eyes were still bloodshot from the funeral—the others had been crying out of grief, but Aaron knew that his section chief's tears had been born of fear (fear for Emily, fear for the team, fear for herself, for all of the agents who spent every day in harm's way, for the little boy whom Emily had almost died trying to protect). She cared, more than she'd ever dare to admit.

"You're right," he admitted softly. She had backed his play, had helped him and JJ pull all the necessary strings to ensure Emily's safety, had even lied to the director, placing her signature on documents certifying SSA Prentiss' death, and arranging all the necessary honors for her funeral. Despite the lapse in judgment when it came to Elizabeth Prentiss, Erin had been nothing but an ally during this time. "I'm sorry."

Those were not the words that she was expecting, because her green eyes widened in shock. However, she quickly recovered, "Thank you."

He nodded and they started walking again. JJ stayed behind them, though she lengthened her stride to close the gap—she wanted a front-row seat to the miraculous moment happening between Aaron Hotchner and Erin Strauss.

Aaron and Erin. She gave a snarky grin at the thought. Someone at DOD had referred to them as 'the wonder twins.' Not the most apt comparison, since they didn't seem close or even tolerable to one another most of the time. But perhaps there was something to the moniker—she watched them moving in tandem, footsteps in sync as they continued discussing the necessary measures and precautions behind their next move, both occasionally glancing around to make sure that they were not within earshot of anyone else, keeping their voices low, their heads inclined towards each other. When push came to shove, they were a well-matched team, a machine of logic and precision, balanced and checked by the other.

Right now, Jennifer Jareau was particularly grateful for the wonder twins—and yes, even for the fact that the blonde twin had thrown her into the jaws of the DOD (and all the undercover ops that such a move entailed), because it meant that JJ was in the perfectly right place at the right time to save her friend.

As they exited the hospital, Aaron looked up to the fifth floor—he wasn't sure which window was Emily's, but he knew that she was up there, somewhere, probably still brooding over his decision.

She was angry. He understood that. But she was also alive, and safer than she had been in months. Maybe one day she could see the good intent behind his imperfect actions.

* * *

_**September 2013. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, but comfortably so. After spending most of the past twelve hours crammed in a room together, everyone had developed a sense of familiarity with one another—being crammed into a fifteen passenger van wasn't exactly fun, but it was much less awkward.

This time, Emily was on the row behind Aaron. He kept his face turned to the window, and she simply watched the street lamps play across his profile as they wove through the city streets.

He looked older (well, he  _was_  older, but he'd never seemed to look like it, not until now). Tired, worn from too many nights like tonight, too many days spent embattled against the never-ending tide. There was a line at the corner of his mouth that she didn't remember being there before, a faint thing that vanished and reappeared in the shifting shadows. She suddenly wanted to kiss it, just that spot, that little badge of worry and sadness, kiss it until it disappeared into his laugh lines, until it melted into that rare smile that spread across his face like the dawn.

It was a lovely thought—one that would never be birthed into action, but still a lovely thought. She smiled slightly. Poor Hotch would probably die of a heart attack if she pulled something like that.

She mentally chided herself for getting so worked up over this reunion. Why had she thought that Aaron Hotchner would be anything less than his usual stone-faced professional self? What made her think that one odd moment between them would somehow crack the flawless veneer that he'd created over the years?

Of course, that wasn't the first thing that he'd ignored between them. For years, they worked together in perfect harmony—no sideways glances or soft smiles or untoward behavior of any kind.

Then Doyle happened. Doyle and near-death and exile.

In was during her exile that Emily Prentiss first felt the shift—subtle things at first, a gentle missing of this odd quirk or the calmness of his presence or the reassuring control of his voice. Of course, she missed the others, too, missed all their quirks and personalities, missed all the colors and depths that they had brought to her life—but somehow that was different.

Perhaps because when she missed the others, she could still smile at warm memories of times spent together, of all the things they did get to do, all the experiences that went unmissed (that time she and Reid went to that awful horror movie festival, and they'd laughed all the way through, laughing until their stomachs hurt and tears were running down their cheeks, the countless times that she and Penelope had warded off ridiculous suitors on ladies' night, sharing secrets and giggling like teenagers, the times she'd put on paint-spattered trousers and helped Derek work on his latest house to flip, occasionally sorting out life's problems in-between coats of paint, the hours spent on Rossi's big back deck, talking and drinking into the night). However, when she missed Aaron Hotchner, she only thought of all the things never done between them, all the things left unsaid, all the moments left unexperienced.

Regret was a powerful thing, a creature of night that muted and shifted with a thousand coulda-woulda-shouldas, ever surprising its victim with some new possibility, some new dream that would never die, but rather take up another corner of the tossed and turning mind. It was sly, despite its heaviness, slipping into the unnoticed parts of the mind and birthing more little foxes of longing and sorrow, little foxes that gnawed on the vines of the good things left behind, insatiable little creatures that fed on her old feelings of never belonging, whispering how she'd done it again—thrown away a chance to put down some kind of roots, distanced herself from something more.

She had tried to kill those little foxes, once she returned to the BAU—but she'd let them live inside her head for too long, and they'd grown stronger than she'd realized. It hadn't helped that Hotch was so kind and concerned during the weeks after her return, or that his tone suddenly seemed gentler, or that she'd known exactly what he meant when he confessed that he'd missed her. She knew that her newfound feelings had colored every interaction between them, and she knew that he was not a dull or blind man. Sometimes he'd even seemed to return those feelings, with the rare smile or the occasional word that seemed to mean something more, but it never went beyond a certain point, never became definite or tangible. She thought that she knew why—because the moment she came back to Quantico, she also came back to the place of  _untouchable_  in Aaron Hotchner's mind. She had become his subordinate again, and whatever she'd sensed or imagined in his tone and actions was simply swept under the rug.

Still, she had remembered the crushing regret from her time away, and she had pushed herself to be more open, to have more conversations with him, to connect in all the ways that she had regretted missing before. Her efforts weren't exactly rewarded, but she did not regret at least trying—when she left again (this time for good), she hadn't felt that same sense of longing. She had tried. They had become closer, but he had made it clear that he didn't want to pursue anything further. For whatever reason, they simply hadn't worked.

But had she  _really_  tried? She bit her lip as she quietly considered the question. Could one say that they really tried to make a relationship work, when in fact, they hadn't even  _had_  a relationship?

She gave a slight shake of her head. Regardless of whether or not they'd really tried, the fact remained that currently, conditions were not conducive to any kind of romantic pursuit.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Conditions were conducive to a lovely fling or a great one-night stand. Neither of which seemed to be Aaron Hotchner's speed—he was a man of gentle overtures and slow pursuits, a man of commitment...wasn't he? She knew what kind of man he was, when it came to his character, his work ethic, his personality—but when it came to his nuances and preferences as a lover, she didn't know anything at all. Though lord knows, she wouldn't mind learning.

_Stop it_ , her inner voice chided.  _You're devolving into a ridiculous love-starved idiot with a one-track mind, and this is neither the time nor the place._

Perhaps that was the reason that she'd feared this reunion—not because she feared Hotch's reaction, but because subconsciously she knew what her own reaction would be.

Not that her appreciation for the man was solely based on his physical aspects—all day, she'd been reminded of all the things she'd missed about him, things that she hadn't even realized that she had missed until she saw them again (the quirk of his eyebrow, the quiet set of his mouth that informed her of his opinion long before he actually spoke, his funny little laugh whenever he was truly amused, the easy humor that laced his tone, his directness, his objectiveness, his solid sense of calm that always filled her with the deepest sense of reassurance—she and Morgan used to joke that if Hotch lost his shit, then it must be a very dire situation, at which point everyone should panic). She'd stared at his hands as they sat quietly on the conference room table, and her body had remembered the weight of them on her hips, on the small of her back as they'd danced together at JJ's wedding, between her shoulder-blades when they'd said goodbye. The palm of her right hand had quietly remembered the warmth of his left hand, feeling like a bird wanting to return to its happy cage.

She doubted that there would be any reason for them to hold hands during this case.

She was certain that there was no reason for them to pursue anything beyond a professional relationship during this case.

She realized that she didn't like reason and logic as much as she used to.

"We have arrived," the driver interrupted her thoughts, turning the van into the driveway of the hotel. They parked under the well-lit alcove at the main entrance, and within seconds, everyone was out of the van, grabbing various bags and traveling cases.

"What time are we reconvening?" Aaron turned to Emily, and she felt a jolt of surprise at the realization that he was deferring to her as the superior officer in this situation.

"Oh, um," she glanced down at her watch again. "I was planning to be back at CID at seven."

He gave a curt nod, "Seven it is."

"Can't you let an old man get his sleep?" David Rossi groaned in feigned exasperation.

"Suck it up, Rossi," she playfully bumped his shoulder with her own.

"You've turned into quite the slave-driver," he kept his expression serious. "Power doesn't sit well with you, gattina."

"If I were a slave-driver, I wouldn't let you sleep at all," she retorted. He grinned at the statement, merely shaking his head as he moved to the back of the van to grab their luggage.

Aaron was smiling, too—he looked younger again, and that made Emily happy.

"Well, I'll see you all in the morning," she offered another small smile. Spencer quickly wrapped her into another hug, which only made her smile deepen as she quietly commented, "Man, you must've really missed me."

"Of course I did," he returned simply, pulling away for a moment. "You're my best friend."

That artless confession made Emily's heart catch in her throat.

"And you're mine," she whispered back, blinking at the realization that her statement was utterly true. Of all the friends she'd lost and made over the years, was there one who was truly her deepest and best? And if so, were any of them truer than this man standing in front of her?

He was smiling softly at her now, and she gave his arm a gentle squeeze of assurance ( _I mean it_ ). With one last smile at her other two former team mates, she headed inside.

By now, David Rossi had returned with their luggage. He tossed Reid's bag at his feet—the younger man half-expected some smart-ass remark ( _what, I help you with Maeve and give you my best cigars, and I'm still not your best friend?_ ), but when he looked up, he saw that Rossi was giving one of his rare, soft smiles.

Hotch, however, was his usual brusque self. "Reid, you get the room keys—the front desk is aware of the situation and held our rooms. We'll meet you at the elevators."

The young doctor nodded, tossing his bag onto the hotel luggage cart, which George Whitting had procured for everyone.

After adding their bags to the cart, Aaron and David headed to the elevators.

Now, David Rossi had been very quiet and very good almost all day. However, there was only so much temptation that a man could resist. So he nonchalantly tucked his hands in his pockets as he quietly asked, "So, does it bother you that  _you_  aren't Emily's best friend?"

"That's an odd question," Aaron turned and looked at him.

"Which you still haven't answered," Dave pointed out.

"Why should it bother me?"

"Ah," the Italian rocked back on his heels with a small smirk. "Now  _that_  is the ultimate question."

Hotch looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. In his usual no-nonsense tone, he asked, "Dave, are you alright?"

Now it was Rossi's turn to look at his partner in slight surprise. "Of course I am."

"Then what's with this line of questioning?"

"Just trying to make conversation." He shrugged nonchalantly.

"About Prentiss."

"About Emily."

"Same person."

"Not really." David turned his attention back to the elevator, to the little light above the door that signaled which floor it was on.

"Dave, you know how much I hate riddles. What are you getting at?" There was no mistaking the frustrated edge to Aaron Hotchner's tone.

"Emily is the person, the personality. Prentiss is the role she plays, a small piece of the greater whole. When you talk about her, you're talking about Agent Prentiss—or at least, that's what you see in your mind. A role which technically doesn't exist anymore." David still didn't make eye contact as he quietly added, "She's not Agent Prentiss to you anymore. She's just Emily."

"Is that supposed to change something?"

"You tell me," Dave turned back to his friend, his dark eyes filled with startling intensity.

There was a beat of silence as Aaron Hotchner tried to figure out how to respond (of course, David Rossi was watching him like a hawk, taking in every nuance).

Finally, the younger man answered, every word carefully chosen as he declared, "I don't see why it should change anything. It doesn't, in fact. She is still fellow law enforcement, and I will still treat her with the respect and courtesy that she deserves. If you are worried that I will continue to act as if she's my subordinate—or if I've already done so—then please come out and tell me."

David fought the urge to lay his head in his hands at the last part—typical Aaron, turning it into a work-related subject.

Of course, Aaron Hotchner was much brighter than that. He knew exactly what his friend was getting at—and he also knew that he was  _not_  having that conversation, not now, not ever. Because there was truth behind his last statement—Emily Prentiss, regardless of what she was no longer, was still a fellow member of this task force. Their roles had shifted slightly, but the rules were still the same.

Still, the fact that they were even discussing this subject gave Aaron a wave of apprehension—Dave wouldn't have said anything if he hadn't seen something to make him think that there was something behind all of today's interactions. Had Aaron made it too obvious, had his feelings inadvertently shown through? If Dave noticed, had Emily?

Oh, god. The mere thought made him ill. There had always been something there, from the first little  _zap_  he felt whenever Emily Prentiss first bustled into his office (but he was married then, and wasn't that marriage, saying  _I'll find other people attractive, but I'll always be faithful, I'll always only truly love you_?). Even after everything, after losing Haley, after finally reaching a point where he could look at another woman without feeling as if he were betraying her memory, he had still tried to keep a respectful distance. Because despite Dave's implication of the opposite, Aaron had seen the Emily behind the Agent Prentiss—she deserved someone who knew five different languages and liked foreign films and Vonnegut, someone who could make her laugh every day, regardless of the darkness that she'd faced at work, someone who could match her fire and her intellect and who could complement all of her best and brightest qualities, someone who could bring out only the good in her. He didn't think he could be that guy. More importantly, he didn't think that she wanted him to be that guy (at least not for her). So he'd tried to keep his feelings under wraps, tried not to push too hard or upset the balance of their working relationship.

But now Dave was bringing it up. It had been so long since he'd been around Emily Prentiss, had he forgotten how to keep up the walls of professionalism and decorum?

He would have to be more careful tomorrow. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their working relationship, or to make Emily feel uncomfortable in any way.

Emily. He'd referred to her as Emily. And as Dave had pointed out, whenever he thought  _Emily_ , it wasn't the untouchable subordinate agent who came to mind. It was a woman with eyes like night and a smile like the first rays of dawn.

Prentiss. He would have to call her Prentiss from now on. He'd find a way to put her back into that box, and he'd keep her there for the duration of this case.

Chief Prentiss. Even more decorum, even more distance. Better.

Chief Prentiss and SSA Hotchner. That was who they were, who they had to be.

The acceptance of this ultimatum settled like a stone in Aaron's stomach. God, he'd change it, if he could. It was simply another sacrifice to be made, for the greater good.

He suddenly realized that sacrifice, as its name implied, was not as easy as it used to be. He was tired of compromise, of losing, of giving more than he'd ever receive. It was his lot in life, the path he'd chosen decades ago, and he'd shoulder the burden because it was his to shoulder.

Still, it didn't stop the little tug of righteous indignation in his heart, the little voice that cried  _it's not fair_.

It wasn't fair. But neither was life.

* * *

_"So I end back where I had begun_   
_Nothing but the present fills your head_   
_Forgetting more than half the things I've said_   
_Shadows of a sacrifice you made_   
_Knowing you could dream but live instead."_

_~Emilie Autumn, Visions._


	8. And Then There Was One

_"Part of making a good decision is just making a decision. You can't always sit and weigh the pros and cons. There just isn't time for that. Making a good decision means sticking with your choice and dealing with what comes with it. Being able to deal with the consequences—that's making a good decision."_   
_~J.X. Burros._

* * *

_**Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Major Yonah Zamir did not rise to her current level of authority by being a brash or unthinking person. And since she preferred to keep an upward trajectory in her career, she knew that she would always have to consider and reconsider every action and every decision, long before it was even made.

Which was why she was seated on the balcony of her hotel room, leaned back in an uncomfortable plastic chair with her bare feet braced against the metal railing, cigarette in hand as she thoughtfully squinted out at the sleeping city.

She needed to make the call. The longer she waited, the closer the others got to learning the truth. As soon as they knew, her window of opportunity would be irrevocably shut.

Still. There was a chance that she was wrong. The world was full of bad men and women—it was not entirely impossible for someone else to be behind this attack.

And yet, the feeling in her gut told her that it couldn't be anyone else.

She took one last long drag of her cigarette before setting it in the ashtray at her feet, which was already filled with others—she hadn't chain-smoked like this in years, not since her combat days, and that itself was a sign that she knew she was right (because she wouldn't be so nervous if she wasn't). Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she dialed a number which she knew by heart.

The line picked up, but no one spoke.

"Rav Seren Zamir," Yonah stated.

A beat passed. Then, a voice, "What news, Zamir?"

"It's him."

"You are sure?"

"As sure as I can be at this point."

"That is not very reassuring."

"We know that he was here. The task force has already discovered that two of the men were not East African."

"That description applies to over ninety-five percent of the world population."

"It's him," Yonah repeated, this time with a harder edge. "Have I ever been wrong about such a thing?"

"There is a first time for everything."

Yonah rolled her eyes at this pronouncement, but she didn't respond. She simply waited.

Finally, the voice spoke again, "We will send someone."

* * *

Ye gods and little fishes, why was the ringing so fucking  _loud_?

This was Rowena Lewis' first conscious thought as the hotel phone on her bedside table continued to blare like a four-alarm siren. She blindly reached for it, snatching it off the hook and gingerly pulling it back to her ear.

"Yes?" She still hadn't moved from her current position of being face-planted on her stomach, and the pillow and her loose hair muffled the sound of her voice.

"Roe." It was Jeff.

"What the hell, man? I have an alarm set."

"Roe, Dr. Arterton called. They've got the eastern section open."

She groaned slightly as she lifted herself onto her elbows, squinting at the clock. "Jeff, I swear to god, it's four o'clock in the morning."

"I told you, we need to be there first thing."

"I hate you."

"I hate you, too. Now get your ass out of bed."

* * *

Forty five minutes and two cups of coffee later, Jeff Masterson's partner still wasn't the most fun person to be around. Luckily, their line of work didn't require much talking or much interaction at all. The generators were running, but they weren't as loud—since it was just a handful of people at the site right now, they were only using about a third of the lights and therefore only a third of the generators. And the excavation crew, with their machines and jackhammers, had left as well. The eastern section was still an absolute mess—smaller bits of concrete still covered piles of random items from the mall, larger pieces that could still be lifted by a person instead of a machine had been left behind, too, in fear of further damaging any bodies that might still be underneath.

"Be careful," Dr. Arterton warned as he zipped up his own forensic jumpsuit—even though his team wasn't here yet, he was awake and alert, so he might as well spend the time doing something constructive."We found one of the bodies earlier this morning, but the other one is still somewhere beneath the rubble."

"We will let you know as soon as we find it," Jeff promised with a curt nod. With a slight smile, Ben Arterton delicately picked his way around the debris, back to his large pelican case filled with tools and collection supplies.

"So, what is your specialty?" The doctor called over his shoulder.

Oh, so they were going to have to be chatty, then. Rowena looked at her partner, and he merely smiled (because he knew that she was silently passing the buck to him, choosing to stay in her own little cocoon).

"Ballistics and explosives," Jeff answered. "Pretty much anything that goes boom."

"Ah, I see."

"Yes. Very American of us, don't you think?"

Benjamin Arterton smiled at the dry quip. At least Agent Masterson had a good sense of humor about it all.

"Well, you must be in a veritable playground then," the Brit mused, moving back towards the unsearched section of the quadrant.

"What about you, Doc?" Jeff kept his tone conversational—even though Rowena had that weird ability to attract people, he was the friendlier of the two, more outgoing, better at making jokes and small talk (personality traits that seemed inconsequential but proved vital to their line of work).

"DNA. Genetic markers, that sort of thing," Arterton shrugged. "All the things you would expect, from looking at me."

He gave a self-effacing smile as he gestured to himself—the slight build, the glasses, the decidedly  _scientist_  look about his entire person.

Jeff Masterson merely smiled at the quip, and a comfortable silence ensued as the three continued quietly sorting through the rubble.

As it was wont to do (more often than he cared to admit, even to himself), Jeff's mind wandered to the woman moving twenty feet away from him. He wanted to apologize for last night—he'd assumed that Dr. Arterton was merely trying to get into Roe's good graces by offering to let them stay late, but when the doctor had called Jeff instead of Rowena this morning, it was suddenly clear that the Englishman's intentions had truly been altruistic. Of course, Jeff has insinuated otherwise last night, and Rowena had understood his meaning—and she'd subsequently become smaller and quieter, like a deflating balloon, and he'd hated himself for making her feel that way.

The more complicated part of this equation was  _why_  he'd been so irritated at the thought of Rowena Lewis enchanting another man. She was his partner, his colleague and sometimes even his friend (always his friend, even when he didn't like to admit it)—but regardless of everything they were, he still was not in any position to dictate her private life. Especially when it involved someone as harmless as Benjamin Arterton. Jesus, Roe could beat that man with both hands tied behind her back.

He quietly admitted that it wasn't her safety that he was worried about. No, that would be too simple. Whatever he feared was something much more complex, something much more tangled than he ever wanted to be.

"Agent Lewis, you're rather quiet this morning," the doctor interrupted the conversational lull.

"I wasn't expecting a four o'clock wake-up call," she turned to give Jeff a pointed look over her shoulder. Still, there was a playfulness at the corner of her eyes which informed him that her irritation was mainly feigned.

Jeff merely grinned back at his partner. She shook her head, turning away so that he couldn't see her smile.

And that was how he knew they were alright again. From day one, they'd always shared an innate ability to make each other laugh—no matter what they faced, if they could both smile, then all was well.

She hadn't been smiling last night. Now she was. He knew that his little off-hand comment didn't warrant a full apology, but he still wanted to say something, to acknowledge that he'd misread the situation, that he knew (and had always known) she wasn't that kind of person, even when she pretended to be. She needed to know that she was seen, as she really was. He needed her to know that he saw her.

Of course, the biggest hurdle to such a conversation was exactly how to  _start_  the conversation. Jeff Masterson prided himself on being a pretty straight shooter, but he couldn't imagine that such a trait would help in this situation ( _hey, Roe, remember last night, when I hinted that you might be a slut?_ —ah, yeah, that would go over splendidly).

She had already forgiven him, in their usual unspoken way. He didn't have to make formal amends. But he could continue to apologize, in their native tongue.

Rowena was currently focused on the remains of a collapsed pillar, which had fallen on a kiosk. She was gingerly lifting the larger pieces of concrete and plaster, setting them to the side as she continued to unearth the object. Jeff skirted around the debris, quietly coming to her aid, lifting the heavier pieces and adding them to the small pile of rubble.

She looked up, smiled gently in thanks, and they continued working in silence.

Something was wrong with Jeff. Rowena could feel the tenseness in his muscles, the little glances that he kept throwing her way. He acted as if he had something to say, but she had learned a long time ago not to push the man until he was ready. So she merely kept her attention on the debris.

Jeff looked over his shoulder again, making sure that Dr. Arterton was out of earshot before quietly admitting, "He's a good guy."

Now Roe stopped, turning her hazel eyes up to meet his blue ones as her mouth opened slightly in surprise.

So that's what this was about. Jeff was still mulling over last night's comment—a mere statement that hadn't even been an argument or even a disagreement, a simple little thing that would be gone and forgotten in a few days.

She knew that this was his olive branch—he still felt badly about it, and he was trying to show her that he'd realized the error of his ways.

"He is," she agreed, fighting back the urge to laugh. Of all the things to bother Jeff Masterson, this had to be the most inconsequential. Still, it was oddly touching, knowing that he really had seen how much it had affected her, knowing that he wanted to make it right, no matter how small the slight seemed.

Jeff gave another curt nod, turning his attention back to the rubble. Amends had been made; they were truly back to normal. So he switched gears, back to their old ways and old conversations, "I'm thinking we'll be here another week solid, at least."

Rowena nodded, crouching down to pull away various hand-knit bags that had once been on display in a pretty painted kiosk.

"Of course, the fun doesn't really begin until we start trying to sort out which evidence goes where," he continued, his tone laced with a dry sarcasm that made the corner of Roe's mouth quirk into a smirk. He glanced over, noted her reaction, and felt a small measure of triumph—they really were back to normal.

Then something changed. The smile slipped from his partner's face, the lines and muscles of her back and shoulders became tense as her hands' movements became faster, more frenetic. She moved away more bits of rubble, her brows furrowing into an odd expression of confusion and dread.

"What is it?" He moved closer, his own expression filling with concern.

Rowena stopped, slowly rocking back onto her heels. From the pile of debris, she gingerly pulled out the remains of a chest harness, which still had bits of cloth and metal where the explosives once were.

The straps were still clasped together, though the edges were disintegrated from the blast. There was no blood, no other form of human remains.

Eighteen ANAM members.

Only seventeen bodies.

"Oh shit." That was Jeff's first reaction.

Roe's mouth set in a thin line as she tiredly agreed. "Yeah. Shit."

* * *

_"Expect the best, plan for the worst, and prepare to be surprised."_

_~Denis Waitley._


	9. Doors and Windows

_"[T]hou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself."_   
_~Robert Burton._

* * *

 

_**Nairobi, Kenya.** _

David Rossi stamped down another wave of irritation as he waited for the transport van to arrive at the hotel entrance. It was an hour before their scheduled rendezvous, but they were all awake and ready to go—Dr. Arterton had called earlier, informing them of the latest discovery. They had found the final hostage-taker's IED, but there hadn't been a body, or any evidence of a body at all. The harness had been intact, meaning that the IED had merely been placed behind a pillar while the man who was supposed to be wearing it had slipped away.

Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss walked up, their expressions equally grim. Early mornings weren't exactly fun, but early mornings that began with the realization that you were already behind on a case that couldn't afford mistakes were even worse.

"I knew it," Rossi muttered, angrily tracing the outline of his goatee as he shook his head at his own ineptitude. "The whole death-of-a-martyr thing isn't our guy's style. We've profiled him as a terrorist for hire. I should have seen that suicide doesn't fit with that ideology—he's all about the money, he gets off on the chaos, he doesn't have a belief worth dying for. It was right there the whole time, staring me in the face."

"Dave, you're not the only one who missed it," Aaron quietly reminded him, and Emily nodded in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You said something was off last night," she pointed out. "At least you had some kind of clue. That puts you ahead of the rest of us."

"And still ten steps behind our UNSUB," the older man dourly added.

Emily turned her face away with a heavy sigh. She couldn't deny that—their missing ANAM member could be anywhere by now, with a three day head-start.

"We need to look at building schematics again," Hotch spoke up. "My guess is that the others didn't know that our missing man wasn't going to die with them—they wouldn't have given him an IED if the plan was to get him out alive."

"So we need to look at the placement of the bodies and the remaining IED, and see how he got out before the blast," Emily picked up the vein of thought. She scrunched her expression in slight frustration as she added, "We also need to look at possible exit points—it couldn't be easy, getting out without being seen by the assault team."

Rossi gave another string of curses under his breath. "Right there, the whole time."

Emily didn't try to placate him any further—she knew that he simply needed to vent, so that whenever they arrived at CID, he could be clear and focused and ready to tackle the case again. Honestly, she shared his sense of frustration. She'd felt like there were puzzle pieces missing since day one, and with each new discovery, the feeling of missing some crucial piece grew larger and deeper in her gut.

Spencer suddenly appeared, munching on a bagel from the hotel breakfast bar. He seemed to be the only one unaffected by the recent news or the early hour.

He smiled when Emily glanced over at him, his usual wide, boyish grin of simple happiness.

"What're you so chipper about?" She asked.

"Free bagels," he replied with utter honesty. He gave a small shrug as he acknowledged the absurdity of his own statement. "It's the little things."

She couldn't help but grin at his oddness—Spencer Reid was probably the only person in the world to get excited over continental breakfast.

Well, with the exception of Clyde Easter, probably. It didn't matter what it was—if it was free, he loved it.

Clyde. Shit. She needed to call him with an update on their latest discovery. That was one phone call that she certainly was  _not_  looking forward to.

She squinted, her mouth setting in a moue of reluctance as she watched the early morning traffic—it would probably be a solid ten minutes before their ride arrived, and even though it was four o'clock in the morning in London, Clyde would want to know what was going on, even if he would later complain about the interruption to his slumber.

"What is it?" Aaron's voice gently broke into her thoughts. She turned back to him, momentarily struck by the intensity in his gaze as it locked on to hers.

"Oh, nothing. I just—I need to call Clyde and tell him what's happened." She gestured in the general direction of London (or at least what she thought was the general direction of London). With a dry smile, she added, "I don't think it's going to be a very pleasant conversation."

"I suppose I should call Quantico," Aaron admitted. He shared her smile, "I don't think that will be a pleasant conversation, either."

She gave another sigh of commiseration. A beat of silence ensued as she glanced down at her phone, prolonging the inevitable.

Aaron's voice was quiet, hesitant, almost-shy, "Is…do you still like it there? Your work situation, I mean, is it…."

He trailed off, unsure of how to fully ask the questions swimming in his brain ( _are you happy, are they appreciative of you and all your assets, do you miss us like we miss you?_ ).

"It's…." she took a deep breath, considering her answer before carefully continuing, "Good. I belong there, I think. I feel centered, grounded…good again, like I did before Doyle. I wasn't sure I'd ever feel that way again, so it's nice."

He gave a curt nod of approval. With a small smile, she added, "But Easter's not you."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment," he admitted.

"It is," she assured him, the gentle edges of her voice filling with some unnamed emotion that pricked a reaction deep in Hotch's chest. "You were—I never felt like I was fighting with you. And I was never…I don't know how to put it, but our working relationship always felt much simpler. More symbiotic, I guess."

He glanced over at her again, his expression informing her that he needed further explanation. She made a helpless gesture with her hands, her mind searching for a way to clarify, "Clyde is just….he's Clyde. I don't know how else to explain him. He's always been intentionally obtuse, which can be frustrating—but at the same time, I know he's looking out for me. He can turn around and be caring and concerned and…the unpredictability is unnerving, sometimes. I never had that problem with you. I never had any problems with you, really."

_Except for the fact that I was hopelessly in love with you and you didn't want anything to do with it._

She didn't voice that last bit aloud. Instead, she offered another almost-sheepish smile as she admitted, "I miss the simplicity of our working relationship."

That little smile made his heart flutter, the way it shone in the depths of her dark eyes—but he remembered his discussion with Dave the night before, and his silent promise to keep distance between them. So he simply said, "I have no doubt that you still handle it with your usual professionalism, Chief Prentiss."

She blinked as if she'd been slapped in the face. Here was his chance to admit that he'd missed her, too, but instead he'd merely placated her with some empty professional compliment, throwing her sentiments back in her face with a dismissive line and polite smile. And he'd ended it with  _Chief Prentiss_ , another knife to her tender heart that he didn't even realize.

Typical Hotchner. World's greatest profiler and world's most oblivious man.

She glanced down at her phone again, trying to hide the hurt that was certainly evident in her face. "Yes, well, I suppose I should go  _handle_  this."

He didn't miss the hint of angry sarcasm that gave sharp edges to the world  _handle_ , and he knew that she'd been insulted by his words. He knew that he'd overcorrected, that he'd been too cold, too dismissive, but god, couldn't she see that he was trying to be respectful? He was trying to keep from making a fool of himself, and instead, he'd just sounded like an ass. As if this day needed any extra frustration.

She turned and walked away, putting distance between herself and the others under the pretext of wanting privacy for her phone call—in truth, she just needed to be away from him, away from the cause of this stinging at the corners of her eyes (really, was she really about to cry like some middle-school girl who'd just been dumped by her first crush?).

Of course, David Rossi had eavesdropped on this entire exchange (Reid had wandered off to the edge of the portico and was currently installed on a little iron-wrought bench, absorbed in some book he'd brought with him). With a light sigh of his own, David quietly commented, "Please understand that I say this with all respect and affection—but Aaron, you are an idiot."

Aaron didn't comment. And that's when David realized that Aaron's obliviousness from the night before had been absolutely feigned.

Aaron knew that there was something between him and Emily. He was  _pretending_  to be unaware. But why? Dave studied the younger man with a new-found sense of curiosity—if Hotch was attracted to Emily, and he knew that Emily felt the same attraction, then what the hell was the hold up?

_We aren't all like you_. It was Erin's voice in his head—they'd fought over whether or not to make their relationship public (she feared repercussions from work, and he'd called her a coward, and there were some other equally regretful things said), and afterwards, she'd curled up next to him in the chaise lounge on the back deck and had quietly reminded him,  _Love is scary, David. It's hard to be brave when your deepest part is on the line._

He could still feel the weight of her head resting against the crook of his neck, could still remember how she'd held him so tightly, as if she'd feared that this was the moment of breaking, as if perhaps they'd finally reached an irrevocable difference. She'd been so fragile and vulnerable in that moment, and he'd suddenly realized all the mental hurdles that an absolute rule-follower like Erin Strauss had already overcome, just to be there, with him—and he'd also realized that perhaps he'd pushed her far enough out of her comfort zone, and perhaps he could deal with loving her in secret, so long as he was loving her at all.

Her words held truth—love was scary, it was unpredictable and it affected every other aspect of your life, in ways that you couldn't even begin to expect or imagine. It was always a risk, and it wasn't until all was said and done that you even knew if it was worth it.

Aaron Hotchner wasn't a gambling man. Sure, he took risks, but they were always calculated and measured and considered from every angle.

Pursuing anything with Emily Prentiss wasn't logical, David understood that. Still, as he had pointed out to Reid last night, sometimes it wasn't about logic.

Aaron could still feel his friend's gaze on him—each passing second of Dave's scrutiny only added to the irritation he felt rising in his blood. Still, he kept his tone calm as he warned, "Don't, Dave."

"Oh, I think we both know it's too late for that," the Italian returned, casually tucking his hands into his pockets.

Despite his aggravation, Hotch had to give a wry grin at the comment—it was true, David Rossi was already involved in this (whatever it was), whether or not Aaron wanted him to be.

"It's nothing," Aaron informed him.

"The fact that we're talking about it says that it's something." Dave was being infuriatingly philosophical at this point. Still, he quietly added, "I'm not going to do anything about it, Aaron—that's up to you. But don't expect me to pretend it isn't there."

Hotch gave a curt nod. It was the best he could hope for. The last thing he needed was David Rossi playing match-maker—he could deal with the occasional side comments, because Dave did have enough kindness to keep them out of earshot of Emily, removing further awkwardness to the situation.

"Just remember," Dave looked out at the traffic, rocking gently back onto his heels. "You only regret the things you didn't do."

* * *

"Emily Prentiss, I swear to god, you did this on purpose." As usual, Clyde Easter didn't even bother with a greeting.

"You know I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

Emily could feel him shifting suddenly, as if he were sitting up, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, a small smile creeping onto her face. This was the part that she couldn't quite explain to Hotch—underneath the snark and the odd circular mind games, Clyde held genuine concern for his agents. It was his redeeming grace.

"Then what is it?"

"We're missing an UNSUB. The excavation crew finished early this morning—we've recovered all of the bodies at the site, but we're one short. There was an abandoned IED, so we think our final ANAM member slipped away shortly before the blast."

"So you're telling me that we have a terrorist loose in Nairobi."

"Well, I doubt he's still in Nairobi—he's had plenty of time to get out, and no airports or highways were closed, because everyone assumed that all the terrorists were killed in the blast."

"Lovely." Clyde gave a disgruntled sigh, "A right royal cock-up from the start."

"There was so much damage, so much turmoil—there's no way the authorities could have expected this," she felt the need to point out the obvious, because it seemed that Easter was forgetting that hindsight was 20/20, and it was always easier to judge mistakes from a high vantage point rather than from the place of boots on the ground.

"I'm not blaming anyone, Emily," he assured her, though there was still a hint of irritation in his tone. Then he gave a little sigh, "So, what's your next move?"

"We're going back to look at schematics, see if we can figure out how he escaped. However, our biggest priority is identifying him and the rest of the ANAM members—the sooner we know who he is, the sooner we can put out an arrest bulletin."

"And what if he's not in our database?"

"He is."

"You sound very sure of yourself."

"I am sure of my team."

"And which team would that be? Mika, or your old friends from the BAU?"

For some reason, that question sent a wave of anger through her chest, "The entire joint task force—which happens to include both Mika  _and_  my former colleagues."

"I feel your temper flaring, Emily. That was always your tell, whenever you were in denial." Unable to leave well enough alone, Clyde added, "That's how you got with Doyle, towards the end."

_Fuck you._  Those were the words that leapt to the tip of her tongue, but she caged them behind her teeth (it would only give him more ammunition, further his point). Instead, she kept her voice calm and level as she reminded him, "And in the end, I handed you Doyle's head on a silver platter. Because I do my job. Always. Every fucking time. Don't you dare forget that."

She hung up before she could hear his reply.

With an angry sigh, she set her hands on her hips, letting the aggravation and frustration ripple over her skin for a few seconds before taking a deep, calming breath.

She shouldn't have let him get to her like that. On the other hand, he shouldn't have goaded her in the first place—this is exactly what she'd been trying to explain to Hotch earlier. Clyde crossed boundaries, pushed buttons, used personal knowledge against his own colleagues in professional settings. Aaron Hotchner would never have done such a thing.

_Stop_. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to discontinue its current path.  _Stop turning everything back to him—he's not interested, he's been as clear and as kind as he could about it, so stop making a fool of yourself._

She fought the urge to throw her phone across the parking lot, to scream at the utter frustration and futility of it all. Men. Terrorists, bosses, one-sided amours...why did all of her problems begin and end with men?

"Fuck it." She muttered. "I'm becoming a nun."

Even then, she had to chuckle at the absurdity of her own words. Running her fingers through her dark hair in one last gesture of irritation, she straightened her shoulders and returned to the entrance, where the rest of the joint task force had assembled, all waiting for the transport van.

Spencer was still seated on the bench, though Ahoo Shir-Del was with him. When he saw Emily, he stood up, his face etched with concern, "Y'Okay?"

"Some days I just want to strangle my boss," she admitted with her usual breezy nonchalance, waving away the question.

Emily spared another glance at Hotch before forcing herself to look away. He was smiling, chatting amiably with Agent Cortez, who was smiling as well, a brilliant, beautiful smile that lit up her brilliant, beautiful face.

The sound of Addison Cortez's laughter floated on the early morning air. It was light and airy and feminine and  _flirty_ , and the last adjective was what irritated Emily Prentiss.

Then Aaron Hotchner laughed, too. He  _laughed_.

Spencer noticed, too, because Emily felt his head swiveling in Hotch's direction. He didn't say anything, but she could feel his confusion.

Emily fully turned her body away, crossing her arms over her chest to steel herself. She'd told herself that Hotch's distance had been due to the fact that he didn't believe in crossing certain lines with colleagues, but obviously, that wasn't true—apparently, he just didn't want to cross that line with  _her_.

That realization stung more than she thought it would. For so long, she'd told herself that he held something for her, that his sense of honor and duty kept him from expressing these feelings, and now, she had the sudden sinking feeling that perhaps she'd made it all up—these past two years were nothing more than the delusions of a love-starved mind, a drowning woman desperately looking for something and someone to hold on to.

Oh, this was hell. Absolute and utter hell.

* * *

David was swapping war stories with George Whitting (he liked the guy, liked his wry humor and his directness) when he heard Aaron's laugh. He craned his neck slightly, trying to get a better glimpse at this rare occurrence.

The more interesting sight was ten feet past Aaron—Spencer was looking at Hotch as if he'd grown a second head, but Emily wasn't looking at all. And the saying goes, sometimes it's the things you don't do that give you away.

He studied the brunette—the way her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked down at the sidewalk, the way she turned away, arms crossing over her chest in a protectively self-contained gesture, the slight inward curve of her shoulders, as if she'd taken a physical hit.

Emily Prentiss was way past  _like_. She was in  _love_.

David had known that the attraction and affection between those two was mutual, but he hadn't realized just how deep Emily's feelings really were.

What an interesting new development.

George Whitting continued with his story, and David listened with half an ear, nodding at the appropriate times, but the wheels of his mind were already turning and spinning.

Perhaps he'd been using the wrong tack—he'd tried to push Aaron into making a move, instead of targeting Emily. He should've known that it wouldn't work. Aaron Hotchner was many things, but he certainly wasn't brash or impetuous or daring in the ways of love.

However, Emily Prentiss was a different story.

She was his gattina, his little brave one, the one more capable of taking risks and making moves. She'd always had that streak in her, a trait that bordered between fearlessness and self-destructiveness. It was one of the reasons that David had connected so easily with her—he saw himself in those tendencies.

And if Emily was Rossi in this equation, then Aaron was Erin—and David Rossi had first-hand knowledge of how to convince that personality type to finally take the plunge. He'd pass along his wisdom to Emily, and hopefully, it'd work. And technically, it wouldn't be breaking his vow to Aaron. After all, he wasn't  _doing_  anything, just offering some friendly words of advice to a former colleague whom he loved like a daughter. How could he possibly be held responsible for what she might do with said advice?

Yes, if either of those blind fools ever made any kind of attempt at pursing more, Emily Prentiss would be the one to do it.

David smiled to himself. When one door closes, a window opens.

* * *

_"If one window closes, run to the next window—or break down a door."_

_~Brooke Shields._


	10. The Bitter Enemy

_"Loyalty to country always. Loyalty to government, when it deserves it."_   
_~Mark Twain._

* * *

_**London, England.** _

The morning sky was still a flat, muted grey by the time Clyde Easter's car pulled up to the London Interpol Office—were he in the country, he would probably be able to see the first pink fingers of dawn feathering the edges of the horizon, but it was blotted out by the smog and cityscape.

It was a damnable hour, when the city was quiet and almost asleep, the streets bare except for a few drunken uni kids stumbling home from a night of too much dancing and too much alcohol.

He shouldn't even be awake at this hour, much less already fully dressed and at the office. However, after his phone call with Emily, he'd been unable to go back to sleep—some of it was due to his concern over recent events, but most of it was due to his own self-aggravation at provoking her.

Emily Prentiss was a good agent. He knew that, he'd always known that. She'd proven herself many times, over many years.

But he'd also seen the way she was, back when Doyle returned. He'd seen the way she acted around her BAU team mates—and he'd noticed that it was nothing like the old Prentiss he knew, the one who kept everyone at arm's length, the one who knew how to distance herself, how to protect herself from dangerous emotions like love and loyalty.

Loyalty in and of itself wasn't bad—but when it was a personal loyalty, a devotion to an individual instead of an idea, then it became a liability. Clyde Easter was a loyal man—he was loyal to his homeland, loyal to the idea of justice and vengeance, loyal to the moral code that he'd crafted for himself over the years. However, he bore no fealty to any man, woman, or agency—that way, if anyone came into opposition with his ideals, he had no qualms about taking them out. It was a choice he'd made long ago, a sacrifice for queen and country, and he'd never regretted it. In fact, it was this creed that had gotten him here, into the top ranks of the world's most elite law enforcement organization.

He had to question Emily's loyalty. She didn't understand that, and that was what bothered him—because there was a time when she would have understood, when she wouldn't have bristled at the accusations or even batted an eye at all. She was drifting away from the creed, from the foundation upon which their lives had to be built.

Once, he'd seen her as an equal—he'd never met another person who could adapt so quickly to their lifestyle, who seemed to take it on as naturally as breathing, and he thought he'd finally found a match, an ally with whom he could build his career. In order to truly be successful in this game, one needed to have a second-in-command who was trustworthy and competent, and Emily Prentiss was both.

After Doyle, however, Emily had left, softened by that blonde-haired brat and a sudden need to care for him (that was when she'd first begun to crack, when Doyle brought his son Declan into the picture). But once everything was finally sorted between Doyle and Emily, Clyde had held onto the slim hope that she could finally move on, move back to who she truly was. Clyde received his promotion, and he knew that he wanted to bring her back into the fold, to set her up to rise through the ranks as his right-hand. She'd accepted the offer, and he'd thought that perhaps they were finally back on track. Her time in the BAU was simply a little detour, and he didn't begrudge her a season of rest. She'd earned it.

But over the past year, he'd begun to realize that the old Prentiss was dead and gone—and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't resurrect her.

Today was a perfect case-in-point. One aside about her former colleagues and she was up in arms. Not a good sign at all. They were in the middle of what could become an international fiasco, and she was already showing signs of weakness—her sense of loyalty would keep her from cutting off the dead weight, if it came to that. It was becoming a liability.

Clyde Easter did not like liabilities.

He had not been in his office a full five minutes before Constance Connelly appeared in his doorway, face drawn in her usual somber expression.

"The facial recognition software tagged a match on one of the men from the Nairobi attack," she informed him, her smoky voice lined with a sense of knowing that filled him with dread. "And I guarantee you'll want to see what we've caught in our nets."

"How'd you know that I was here?" He glanced around—the office was practically dead at this hour, aside from a few late-shift analysts.

"I'm obsessed with you," she said dryly, her deadpan expression never giving anything away. "I wouldn't be a very good stalker if I didn't know exactly where you were at all times."

He smirked at the quip—he was infamous for his snarkiness, but Constance Connelly made him look like an amateur. It was one of the many things he liked about her.

She stood next to him, holding up her tablet for inspection. On the screen was a mug shot, "Say hello to an old friend."

"Mariatu Wasaki," Clyde knew who it was, long before he read the name. "Christ, are we sure it's him?"

"Eighty-seven percent match. Even after enhancement, the security footage isn't the best. It's as close to certain as we're gonna be, until we bring in his head for facial reconstruction."

"That might be a bit more difficult than expected," Clyde admitted. He gave a heavy sigh, "I spoke to Chief Prentiss earlier this morning—apparently one of our terrorists got away. I would bet good money that Mr. Wasaki is our missing man."

"Clever bastard," Constance muttered with a slight shake of her head. Mariatu Wasaki had been dancing out of their clutches for almost three decades now. "Got more luck than God gave a cat."

Clyde gave a grim, humorless smile at the pronouncement. It was true.

He handed the tablet back to his colleague, taking a moment to observe her—as usual, her auburn hair was meticulously swooped back into a twist, makeup unsmudged and clothes unwrinkled. She had a natural beauty, but it was a cold beauty, not a thing born of warm smiles and dancing eyes, but rather one formed by well-sculpted cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes the deep shale blue of the sea, with a graceful neck and long, thin limbs that made her seem taller than her relatively short height (she was at least half a foot shorter than he was). She had a nice smile, when she used it, but she was not the kind of woman that you'd approach at a pub and offer to buy a drink. She was the kind who'd sit in the back, smoking and quietly ordering her own drinks, the kind too beautiful to approach, the kind you'd worship from afar.

"Have you been here all night?" Despite her fresh appearance, he couldn't imagine her getting to the office this early in the morning.

"I don't sleep much," she returned simply.

"Yes. I seem to remember that you used to like staying up all hours of the night."

She pretended not to hear that. Instead she focused on her tablet, completely unruffled by his teasing (another reason he liked her, because she could roll with his punches).

"We need to call the task force in Nairobi and inform them."

He cringed slightly at the pronouncement—he hadn't expected to engage Emily Prentiss so soon after their little spat. He'd hoped that she'd have time to cool off, and he seriously doubted that a mere two hours had been enough to take the edge off her current aggravation towards him.

As always, Constance noticed his hesitation, "Is there a problem, Mr. Easter?"

He didn't miss the sarcasm in her tone. She only referred to him as  _Mr._  whenever she was being condescending or otherwise snarky.

"There's always a problem, Ms. Connelly," he returned. She smiled at that, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

She turned to go, "I'll start pulling any security footage that we can find from local airports within a fifty-mile radius of Nairobi. I'll have the analysts scan passenger manifests for any of his known aliases, see if he used any of his previous identities."

"But if they're known identities, shouldn't they already be on a watchlist?" Clyde asked. "Kenya has always been very good about cooperating with Interpol."

"Some of the names are too common to feasibly put on the list," she informed him. With a dry quirk of her brow, she added, "Unless you want to stop and search every John Smith that boards a plane."

She gave another smile, a true one that reached her knowing eyes, "Besides, the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, have kept some of his names clean, so that he thinks they haven't been linked to him. Easier to find him again if we already know the alias."

He didn't share her humor. It was grim truth of their world, but the truthfulness behind it didn't make it any easier to bear—Mariatu Wasaki had been allowed to roam free, even when international authorities knew where he was (a rare occurrence), because he was a medium-sized fish that led them to other bigger fish.

Constance noticed his somber expression, and she stopped, lightly leaning against the door frame.

"Hey," she called softly, bringing his attention back to her. "Maybe this will break the camel's back."

He understood what she meant by this—maybe this latest act of cruelty would be the final push needed to convince their superiors that Wasaki needed to be taken out for good, maybe they would finally see that the benefit of his survival and freedom no longer outweighed the destruction and chaos that followed.

"I wouldn't hold my breath," he warned her.

She gave a slight shrug and another cat-like smile, "I never do."

* * *

_**Central Shopping Center. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Benjamin Arterton took another deep breath as he looked up from his clipboard, taking a moment to survey the dozen or so white-suits picking through the eastern section. He'd known that by informing the others of the latest discovery, this place would be turned into a veritable beehive of activity.

The trouble with beehives was that they had bees. And bees had stingers.

There had already been a few pointed questions as to why the Americans had already been at the site to make the discovery in the first place. He hadn't missed the vague accusations in the tone of such queries, but he'd kept calm and simply reminded everyone that Agents Lewis and Masterson had  _requested_  to be informed the instant that the remaining quadrants were opened—every agency had the chance to do the same, but they'd opted to wait until the scheduled meet-up.

And, of course, everyone wanted a crack at the area where the IED had been found. It was like trying to wrangle a herd of kindergartners. Absolute madness.

Major Zamir appeared beside him, offering a bottle of water, which he gratefully accepted.

"Glorified hall monitor is not so fun, is it?" She commented dryly.

He chuckled at the quip, "No. Not so fun at all."

She scanned the area, her gaze coming to rest on the Americans, who were now in a western quadrant, away from the rest of the forensic melee. "Interesting. They find the biggest piece of evidence, and then move to the section with the least evidence to offer."

"I believe they're trying to play fair," he informed her, the tone of her comment irritating him. Lewis and Masterson had yielded the field to the other investigators, even when by right, they had been there first. It was almost  _noble_  (at least in their line of work), and he didn't like the fact that everyone else seemed to view them in the opposite light.

"If it were me, I would not worry so much about playing fair," she admitted, taking a sip from her own water bottle. "Terrorists don't play fair. Perhaps we shouldn't either."

He glanced over at her, taking a moment to study her profile before quietly adding, "We're supposed to be better than them."

The corner of her lips curled into a disdainful smirk. "And how has that helped us? We're still losing. The mothers who lost children here, will you reassure them that at least we are better people than the ones who killed their sons and daughters? I am certain they will find that very comforting."

Dr. Arterton didn't have a response for that.

Zamir noticed Chava Azoulay was watching her again—she stamped down a wave of irritation as she turned away. They hadn't spoken all morning, but Yonah could feel the questions in the younger agent's eyes, the questions that she didn't dare voice aloud. Of course, it didn't help that a body was missing—they both knew whose it was, even without saying so.

Mariatu Wasaki. A man of legend—even his name was not real, but rather one chosen by him, many years ago, when he was crafting his persona. The name itself was his call-sign, his battle cry, his mission in life.

_The Bitter Enemy_. Yes, he'd named himself well. Five years ago, he'd been the mastermind behind an attack in Tel Aviv that had killed hundreds of innocent civilians. He would soon learn that on that day, he'd made the bitterest enemy of all—the nation of Israel, who would not allow his crime to go unpunished.

Zamir's lips pressed into a thin line as she thought about how long the past five years had been, how bleak and seemingly futile. Now they had him. Now vengeance would be served.

She tried to keep herself from getting too hopeful—there was still a chance that he could slip out of their grasp again, disappearing into the underground network of terrorists, smugglers, drug dealers, and slavers that he'd developed over the years. But something felt so  _right_ , as if it were destined to finally happen. They'd never been this close to him—and she'd be damned for all eternity if she let him get away.

Yonah Zamir had been stationed in Tel Aviv at the time. She'd been one of the officers called in to the bombing, one of the unfortunate souls who had to walk through the burning metals and the pleas of the dying, the air filled with acrid smoke and the wails of mothers, fathers, children, friends, lovers, strangers. She'd held a child—so small and so damaged that she couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl, only that it was a toddler, bloodied and maimed and clinging to life with a heartbreaking determination—and she'd carried it out to the rescue workers. Bits of the babe's burned flesh had stuck to the fabric of her jumpsuit, and the child had screamed in agony.

If there was a hell, she had already walked through it.

She never knew if the child had survived. Part of her had hoped that it didn't. She hated herself for wishing such a thing. She'd half-expected God to smite her and take away her own living child as punishment, but no vengeance had come—in fact, she'd become pregnant with her second child not long after that. Perhaps He'd seen the mercy behind her cruel prayer.

Even now, her throat remembered the heaviness of the smoke, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. There wasn't a single day of her life that she did not see the child's face, or hear its screams. She knew that even after she took out the man responsible for such suffering, the memory would not simply fade away—however, she clung to the vain hope that somehow, she would be able to find some solace in knowing that she'd finally brought some kind of justice to it all.

But was it justice? If a man brutally maimed and murdered hundreds, and then himself went out with a quick, clean bullet to the head, could that really be considered  _just_  or  _fair_?

Yonah knew the answer. And she knew that was why she would be forever haunted by the burned child.

Regardless of this knowledge, she'd dedicated her life to finding this man—her husband had joked that she knew more details of Mariatu Wasaki's life than she did of her own family. She was a woman obsessed, possessed with a singular desire to find the man behind so many atrocities. She'd even wondered if she would retire after she caught him. It would be the deepest achievement of her life, and perhaps then the burning children and crying mothers would let her get some peace, let her enjoy her own children without the heavy weight of guilt pressing onto her heart and shoulders.

If only Azoulay wouldn't give it all away at the last moment.

Yonah pushed down another wave of irritation, taking a deep breath as she reminded herself that no one else knew or even noticed what was going on. Ha-Mossad had promised to send someone—she knew that it would not be too much longer before the other agencies figured out who Wasaki was, and subsequently realized that he was the missing man, but every precious minute until then was another sixty seconds that a Kidon agent got closer to finding him and taking him out before the others did. It was a gamble, but she felt that the odds were in her favor.

"I must get back to work," she informed Dr. Arterton, giving a slight nod as she pivoted on her heel and headed back to the evidence tables.

The tables designated for evidence found in the eastern quadrants were already filled with bullet casings, bits of metal and glass tipped with blood, fibers, charred unrecognizable things—and of course, the infamous IED, already in a large evidence bag and patiently awaiting its ride to the lab at CID. She picked it up, rubbing the frayed straps through the slick plastic bag.

_You escaped death this time, you coward. You won't be so lucky the next. My only regret is that I won't be the one to kill you myself._

* * *

_**CID Headquarters. Nairobi, Kenya.** _

Mika Kimathi continued to twirl his pen between his fingertips as he stared at the boards in the conference room, his eyes bouncing from the photos of ANAM members to the blueprint of the Central Shopping Center.

It didn't make sense. There was no feasible way that their missing man could slip out of the eastern entrance in time to escape before the detonation collapsed the entire eastern section. Which meant he would have had to leave by another entrance—any other direction would put him walking past his fellow ANAM members, obviously without his IED, which would have raised questions.

Things weren't adding up.

And no one else had any answers, either. Today, they'd split between the two conference rooms, with the Germans, Israelis, and Canadians in the other room while the Americans, British, and various CIA operatives took the main one.

His boss breezed back into the room, holding up her cellphone as she stated, "That was Clyde Easter at Interpol."

Chief Prentiss had gotten a call a few minutes earlier, and she'd left the room to take it—Mika had instantly known that it had to be someone important.

"I think I know who our missing hostage-taker is," she announced. Everyone sat up, all interest in the room turned to her. She went to the board, pulling off one of the screen shots from the video and resetting it squarely in the center of the board, "Mariatu Wasaki. Interpol has been watching him for some time now—we believe he's West African by birth, possibly from Senegal or Guinea, since he often speaks in French or arranges his English to fit French grammatical structure. He's approximately forty to forty-six years of age and has spent the last twenty-something years as a terrorist-for-hire. He's been the architect behind several attacks from various organizations—religious, political, environmental, he doesn't discriminate, so long as it's against governments in general and Western powers in particular."

CIA Operative Addison Cortez crossed her arms over her chest with a heavy sigh—she'd heard that name before, "Wasaki's a major player. If he was coming into the area, there should have been more chatter."

"It's possible that even the men who died in the attack didn't know who he was," Emily pointed out. "They were merely foot soldiers, it may not have seemed necessary to inform them of the plan."

"Wait...so you're saying that some of the ANAM organization  _knew_  that Wasaki would survive?" Addison's face skewed in confusion.

"It makes sense," David Rossi assured her, using his hands to illustrate his point. "The head honchos who brought him in knew who he was—they'd also know that he wasn't going to give his life for the cause. Of course, they wouldn't tell the others that, because it would negatively affect morale. I mean, why take orders from a guy who's too scared to actually die with you?"

Mika had already grabbed his laptop, finding Wasaki's profile on the Interpol database. He held up his hand to politely interrupt, "According to his jacket info, we've been tracking his movements—well, as best we could, anyways—for the last fifteen years. His most recent hit was five months ago, when he was in Spain."

"Spain?" Addison looked over at Mika. "That's a long way from Kenya."

"If Interpol knew where he was, why didn't they grab him?" Spencer spoke up.

"Some of our intel comes in after a target leaves the area," Mika explained. "For example, the entry on Spain was added to our system in May, but he was actually in the country during the month of April."

"Our confidential informants meet on various schedules," Emily added. "Some only meet their handlers once or twice a month—sometimes it's due to the fact that there isn't much activity going on, and sometimes it's simply because their lifestyle is so volatile that they have to be extremely careful with their meets."

She quickly switched gears, trying to get them back on track, "Let's keep in mind that Mariatu Wasaki has been identified in the footage, and even though he seems to best fit the personality and motivation of our missing man, there were reports of  _two_  men matching his description, and there's still a chance that one of the bodies in the morgue could belong to him."

"We need to figure out who the other non-East African man was," Hotch agreed.

"And send the new information down to the morgue," Addison added. "Maybe they can rule out whether or not Wasaki's on one of those slabs."

Emily gave a curt nod of approval before turning slightly towards Hotch, "I've already informed our analysts in London to start searching Wasaki's known contacts—maybe the other foreigner is among them."

Hotch glanced down at his watch. Garcia was probably still asleep—she needed the rest, it would be alright to entrust someone else with intel management for a little while. Not that it was really his call anymore, since Prentiss was the superior officer.

Reid was leaning over in his chair, reading Wasaki's profile over Mika's shoulder, "Guys, we're looking at an extreme case of Anti-Social Personality Disorder—he seems to be a cross between a malevolent and risk-taking sub-types."

"You'd have to a risk-taker, in his line of work," Rossi agreed. With a slight grimace, he admitted, "This is beginning to remind me of Izzy Rogers and Matthew Downs."

"Their behavioral profiles are similar," Prentiss set her hands on her hips as she gave slight shrug. "Except that Rogers and Downs did it for the thrill, and Wasaki does it for the money."

"Maybe not," Spencer sat up suddenly. "Ted Turner once said 'Life is a game, money is how we keep score.' Maybe Wasaki sees money the same way. The cash he makes from each organization allows him to travel and plan more attacks."

"When you're doing something you love, the money is just the cherry on the cake," Rossi followed the line of thought. He was nodding in agreement with Reid's idea, "He's a terrorist-for-hire, but not because he loves the pay. He loves the thrill of the job itself."

"And participating in the attacks that he plans is the ultimate joyride," Emily added. Her brow scrunched in concern, "If he's a true thrill-seeking personality type, he wouldn't slink out some back exit."

Aaron was already ahead of her, moving down the hall as he declared, "He would have walked out the front door."

* * *

_"No great discovery was ever made without a bold guess."_   
_~Isaac Newton._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I keep sharing my mental writer's cast with you, but I can't help it—some of these are written so specifically that I can't even stand the thought of y'all imagining anyone else as the character. For Constance Connelly, think the wonderful Michelle Fairley.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually based on true events. In September 2013, the Shabab, a Somali Islamist group, attacked the Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi, Kenya. A joint task force of American, British, Israeli, German, and Canadian forensic experts were sent to investigate—the FBI sent members from the New York Joint Terrorism Task Force, but for the purposes of this story, I took a little artistic license and decided that perhaps they needed to some good ol' behavioral analysts straight from Quantico. Also, though some details of the event are true, all profiles and motivations of the fictional group of UNSUBs are NOT based on the real-life attack—and neither are timelines, body counts, or final state actions.


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